eli

Zoro sat a few meters away, slumped against a driftwood log, his swords still strapped to his waist. His shirt was torn, hair soaked, one eye shut. He was breathing heavily—but alive.

You sat up slowly. “Zoro?”

He didn’t look at you, just muttered, “You’re awake. Took you long enough.”

“You saved me.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

By midday, you’d scrounged fruit and managed to start a fire. Zoro limped into the trees and returned dragging the corpse of a boar the size of Chopper. You weren’t sure how he caught it with a limp and a half-closed eye, but you didn’t ask.

He dropped it near the fire and grunted. “Too bad the cook isn’t here to pamper you, huh, princess?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You know,” he said with a shrug, not looking at you. “Usually Sanji’s all over you. Thought you’d be missing him by now.”

You blinked, heart skipping. “That’s… random…Whatever you’re assuming is wrong”

“Is it?” Zoro sat back and started sharpening one of his swords. “You and him always whispering, giggling, whatever. Figured you’d be crying without him feeding you grapes or rubbing your feet.”

You gaped at him. “Sanji’s just a friend. And he’s never rubbed my feet, what the hell?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s your problem?”

He looked up, and for a second, there was something unreadable behind his eye. Then he muttered, “Nothing. Just surprised you’re so calm without your favorite crewmate.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to admit the only crewmate you were thinking about right now… was him.

Night fell. You shared the warmth of the fire, not speaking. You could hear the ocean, the crackle of burning wood, and Zoro’s quiet breathing.

You decided to break the silence.

“Why did you push me off the ship?”

His voice was low. “Because the explosion was on your side. You would’ve died.”

“You could’ve gotten caught in it.”

“I knew I wouldn’t.”

You hesitated. “Yeah right you would dumbass….You always act like you don’t care. But you do.”

He snorted, pulling his bandana off and rubbing the back of his neck. “You sound like the cook now. Real sentimental.”

“Why do you keep bringing up Sanji?”

Silence. Then,

“Because I hate how easy it is for him.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He talks to you. Makes you laugh. You let him sit next to you. You smile when he’s around.” His jaw clenched. “With me, it’s always a fight. Always awkward. Like I’m not allowed near you.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. “I don’t smile because it’s Sanji.”

He looked at you.

“I smile because… it’s easier to hide how I feel about you when I’m laughing at something stupid.”

Zoro stared.

You stood up, turning toward the jungle. “I’m going to get more firewood.”

Before you could take a step, he caught your wrist. Not hard. Just enough.

“You like me?”

You didn’t turn around. “Maybe.”

He stood, now directly behind you. Close enough to feel his breath on your shoulder.

“That’s really inconvenient,” he murmured.

You frowned. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been trying not to like you for months.”

“I did have your back,” he growls, voice low “He just went through me first.”

You look up. Zoro’s bleeding from the temple, his shirt ripped, a deep fresh cut across his chest. One arm hangs limp at his side. His swords are sheathed, but his breathing’s all wrong. Shaky. Strained.

You know that look.

“Zoro… you can’t carry me.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“And I’m not walking. I can’t feel my legs, babe.”

His jaw tightens. You see the war happening in his head. His pride screams to fix it himself, but his body’s failing. You lean your forehead against his, voice soft.

“You gotta call someone to help.”

Zoro’s silent.

Then a voice cuts through the haze like a damn knife.

“Ohhh no. No, no, no. This is bad. This is very bad.”

Sanji.

His boots skid to a stop in the dirt, one sleeve torn, bruises darkening his jaw. He crouches beside you, worry etched across his face “Ma chérie, what the hell happened to you? You’re—you’re—”

“I’m not dying” you murmur, almost amused.

“She’s not dying,” Zoro snaps, shooting Sanji a glare “But she can’t move. I can’t carry her.”

Sanji’s brows shoot up “So you’re actually asking me for help?”

Zoro doesn’t respond. He just glares harder.

“Oh my god,” Sanji gasps theatrically, placing a hand over his heart “Roronoa Zoro, Pirate Hunter, is entrusting me with his precious, injured girlfriend. The world is ending.”

“I will end your world if you drop her.”

You groan, head lolling back “Guys. Not the time.”

Sanji immediately sobers “Right. Sorry.” He leans in, his tone gentler now “This is gonna hurt, but I’ll be careful.”

Zoro grabs his wrist before he touches you “If you get weird, even a little, I’ll know.”

Sanji rolls his eyes, but there’s a flicker of something honest under the dramatics “She’s hurt, moss-for-brains. Not my type when she’s bleeding out.”

You snort despite the pain “Wow. Thanks.”

Zoro lets go of Sanji’s wrist, reluctantly.

Sanji carefully hooks his arms under your knees and back, lifting you with surprising steadiness. You flinch, but he adjusts, murmuring apologies the entire time. You can feel Zoro’s gaze burning into the both of you.

“Hey” you whisper to Zoro, reaching your hand out.

He grabs it instantly, squeezing it tight “I’ll be right behind you.”

Sanji shifts your weight, starting toward the ship “Take your time, mosshead. Wouldn’t want you to collapse on the way and make me carry you too.”

Zoro mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “dead chef walking.”

But you hear it too, beneath the insults, under the tension, is trust.

And for now, that’s enough.

“Chopper!”

Sanji’s voice bounces off the twisted trees of the island interior. He cradles you tighter against his chest, eyes scanning for movement “Come on, little reindeer, now’s not the time to play scavenger.”

Zoro limps behind, every step deliberate. He’s pale under the dirt and blood, his knuckles clenched tight. He hasn’t spoken in minutes, not since you stopped answering him.

You groaned once. Then your head lolled against Sanji’s shoulder. And now nothing.

“She’s out cold,” Sanji mutters, almost to himself “Breathing’s shallow. I don’t like this.”

Zoro stops walking “Let me see her.”

Sanji glances back “We don’t have time to switch carriers, dumbass. You can barely stand.”

Zoro doesn’t budge “I said, let me see her.”

Reluctantly, Sanji kneels and shifts your weight slightly so Zoro can crouch beside him. Zoro brushes hair away from your face, his hand trembling just enough to notice.

“Hey. Y/N.” His voice is low now, barely audible “You with me?”

Your eyelids don’t flutter. Your lips are pale.

Sanji watches him, surprised at the way Zoro’s hand lingers on your cheek.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Sanji offers gently “She’ll pull through.”

“She better,” Zoro mutters, eyes locked on your face “I didn’t fight off three of these monsters just to watch her pass out in the dirt.”

Sanji lets him have a moment before standing again “Let’s move. We’re no good to her like this.”

Zoro stands too, but he’s slower now. His entire right leg is dragging slightly.

“You’re falling apart,” Sanji notes, voice tinged with both sarcasm and concern “Need me to carry you next?”

Zoro snorts “I’d rather be buried.”

“Wouldn't be the first time I carry you... But suit yourself, marimo.”

Sanji adjusts his hold on you again, but more carefully this time. You’re burning up now, your body swinging between chills and heat.

“You’re holding her like she’s made of glass” Zoro points out.

“She is right now,” Sanji snaps “You want me to drop her?”

“You’d be dead before she hit the ground.”

“Romantic,” Sanji mutters “Just say you love her and let’s go.”

Zoro doesn’t answer. His silence says everything.

They stumble into a clearing and Sanji spots Chopper.

“Chopper!” Zoro bellows.

The doctor turns, eyes wide “What happened?! Oh no, oh no—is that blood?”

Sanji doesn’t waste time. He kneels, laying you gently on the nearest blanket “She passed out a few minutes ago. Deep gash on her side. Internal bleeding, maybe. She hasn’t opened her eyes.”

Zoro drops beside you, his whole body stiff with tension “She was conscious right after the fight. Talking. Then she just… went quiet.”

Chopper’s already on it, gloves on, stethoscope out “Stay back, both of you. Let me work.”

Sanji pulls Zoro a few steps back. They both stand in silence for a moment, watching Chopper work with rapid, practiced hands.

“She’s gonna make it,” Sanji says quietly “She has to.”

Zoro glances at him, exhausted “If she doesn’t, I’ll kill you.”

Sanji rolls his eyes “You really know how to make a guy feel comforted.”

Zoro’s lip twitches, and for a second, just a second, Sanji sees something close to gratitude behind his usual scowl.

You stir, faintly, the barest motion of fingers twitching.

Zoro immediately drops to your side “Hey. Hey, hey—look at me.”

Your lips move, dry and cracked “…Zoro?”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour “Yeah. I’m here. You fainted like an idiot. Don’t do that again.”

Chopper’s already at your other side “She’s stable now. But she needs rest. And stitches.”

“Ugh,” you murmur “Don’t let Sanji near my stitches.”

“I would never,” Sanji huffs from behind you “Though I was tempted to draw little hearts around the bandages.”

Zoro glares “Try it. I dare you.”

You crack a weak smile “You guys are… the worst.”

But your voice is soft, and your fingers curl weakly around Zoro’s sleeve. And that’s enough to keep him from collapsing himself.

You dream in flashes. Smoke. Pain. Arms under you. A soft voice murmuring apologies. The scent of cigarette smoke and flour. Something warm against your forehead.

Then everything fades into darkness.

When you wake up, it’s to the low creak of wood, the soft hum of the Sunny rocking beneath you. The room smells like clean linen, alcohol, and the ocean. You’re warm, safe. Your side aches like hell, but your brain is clear enough now to register that you’re alive, and tucked neatly into the infirmary’s bed.

Your fingers twitch. A shadow stirs beside the bed.

Zoro.

He’s slumped in a chair, arms folded across his chest, chin dipped low like he fell asleep mid-glare. One foot taps slightly, and there’s a fresh bandage wrapped around his bicep.

You blink slowly. Then whisper, hoarse, “…Zoro?”

He snaps awake so fast the chair nearly tips backward “You’re up?”

You nod, barely. Your throat’s dry, but you manage, “Feels like I got hit by a sea train.”

“You did,” he grumbles. He leans forward, his hand gripping the edge of the mattress like if he doesn’t hold on, you might disappear “Don’t scare me like that again.”

“You were scared?”

He looks away, cheeks faintly tinged “No.”

You smile weakly.

There’s a long pause. Then you whisper, “Can you… get Sanji?”

Zoro freezes “What?”

“I wanna thank him. I just remember… being carried. He was gentle. He smelled like pastries.” You grin sleepily “Like a knight or something.”

Zoro stares at you. His eye twitches “A knight.”

“Mmhmm. My… chevalier in shining apron.”

“Oh, hell no.”

You giggle weakly, and he scowls even harder.

Zoro mutters something about “damn curly-brow” and “should’ve let me carry her and pass out instead” but he gets up anyway, muttering all the way to the door. He yanks it open and yells down the hall:

“HEY, LOVE-COOK! YOUR DAMN PRINCESS WOKE UP AND WANTS HER SHINING FRENCH-FRIED KNIGHT!”

You wheeze a laugh and immediately regret it as pain lances up your side.

“Ugh—ow. Ow. Okay. Worth it.”

Zoro glares at you “Not funny.”

You grin “A little funny.”

Moments later, Sanji slides into the room with a flourish, one hand to his heart, the other holding a steaming mug of tea.

“Ma belle, you called for your humble rescuer?”

Zoro groans “Kill me.”

Sanji kneels beside your bed dramatically “I brought tea, special blend for pain and recovery. Also, you’re glowing even with dried blood and stitches. How do you do it?”

You take the tea, sipping carefully “Thanks, Sanji. Seriously. I don’t remember much, but I remember you carrying me. You felt safe.”

Sanji softens instantly, all flair dropping “Any time. You’re our crewmate, our family. I’d carry you through a burning building if I had to.”

Zoro mumbles, “Burning kitchen, maybe. Not a building.”

Sanji ignores him.

“Still,” you murmur, “you were… really sweet. Thank you.”

Zoro groans louder “That’s it. I’m throwing myself overboard.”

Sanji smirks “What’s the matter, mosshead? Jealous?”

Zoro doesn’t answer. He just sits back down and crosses his arms, glowering at the wall like it insulted him.

You reach out with a small smile, grabbing his hand. He looks over, still sulking, but your fingers tug his down.

You mouth, thank you.

He doesn’t smile, but his thumb brushes across your knuckles. Just once.

Sanji rises “Alright. I’ll let you two lovebirds bicker in peace. But next time she needs rescuing, I’m bringing rose petals.”

“I’ll bring my swords.”

“Romantic!”

The door clicks shut behind Sanji.

Zoro sighs, muttering, “Chevalier my ass…”

You smile and lean back “You’re still my favorite swordsman.”

He grunts. But his hand never leaves yours.

You watch him in silence until he speaks.

“Still thinking about your chevalier?”

You smile faintly “Still sulking about it?”

He glances at you “I’m not sulking.”

“You’re absolutely sulking.”

He scowls “I just don’t like the way you looked at him in his arms.”

“I was out of it. I don’t even remember much. But something about the way he held me felt safe. And soft. And dumb, and warm. I was so out of it that at some point I even thought for sure it was you.” You smirk “Turns out it was the one who wears suits to jungle battles.”

Zoro huffs “You’re comparing me to that frilly cook?”

You nod slowly, eyes closing for a moment “Mhm.”

Zoro grunts “Tch. Dumb.”

But then he leans forward, and you feel his callused hand brush your arm, slow and deliberate. His voice softens, just a little.

“You scared me, you know.”

You open your eyes again “Yeah?”

“You dropped so fast. One minute, you were teasing me. Next… nothing. Just a dead weight in curly-brow’s arms. I couldn’t do a damn thing.”

His hand closes around yours. Not possessive, just grounded. Steady.

“I thought maybe I’d lost you.”

You shift your fingers to lace with his “You didn’t.”

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t...” you repeat gently, tugging his hand until he leans a little closer “You were there. Even if you couldn’t carry me, you stayed. That means more to me than anything.”

Zoro stares at you, unreadable. Then, slowly, he leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

For a long, quiet moment, you just breathe each other in.

No bravado. No teasing. Just warmth. Just him.

Eventually, you murmur, “You know… I might ask Sanji to carry me again.”

Zoro pulls back with a look.

You smir “Kidding.”

Zoro shakes his head, standing up with a low groan, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“You’re lucky you’re injured,” he mutters “Or I’d drop-kick you off the deck.”

“Romantic” you whisper.

He smirks, just slightly.

Zoro pulls the chair closer to your bedside, sits again, and this time, he doesn’t fold his arms or pretend he’s not watching you sleep.

When your eyes finally drift closed, his hand is still wrapped around yours. Firm. Protective. Unmoving.

Sanji might have carried you.

You, on the other hand, just wanted a calm day. A nice walk. No drama. Zoro didn’t have any plans, so he chose to stay with you.

“Didn’t feel like wandering off,” he said with a shrug “Plus, you always get lost.”

“I do not!” you argue with a little laugh.

“You got lost on the ship” he says with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, bumping his arm lightly with your shoulder “That happened once. And you’re the one to talk???”

Zoro just grunts, amused, and keeps walking beside you. His hands are in his pockets, his swords resting at his side like always. He walks with that usual lazy confidence, but you can tell he’s relaxed.

Then, you hear a small cry. Like a kid. You stop walking “Did you hear that?”

Zoro lifts his head “Yeah.”

You both follow the sound, turning down a quieter street. And there, near the side of a fruit stand, is a small boy. He can’t be older than five. His face is red from crying, his small hands wiping at his eyes. He looks scared.

“Hey, sweetie,” you say gently, kneeling in front of him “What’s wrong?”

The boy looks up at you with big teary eyes “M-Mommy’s gone…”

“Oh no,” you whisper “You got separated?”

He nods fast, then suddenly throws his arms around you. You nearly fall back from the sudden hug but Zoro puts a hand on the back of your head, gently, just to keep you balanced.

Zoro’s eyes widen. You glance up at him, then back down at the boy. He’s shaking.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay...” you say, rubbing his back “We’ll help you find her. I promise.”

The boy doesn’t let go. He clings tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear too.

Zoro scratches the back of his neck “You sure about this? We could find a guard or something.”

You give him a look “Zoro, he’s terrified. Would you want a stranger dragging you around if you were five?”

He sighs “Fine. So we’re babysitters now.”

You smile a little “Just until we find his mom.”

Zoro folds his arms, watching the boy with a face that’s trying very hard not to be soft “What’s his name?”

You turn to the boy “Sweetie, what’s your name?”

He sniffs “Kenji.”

“Okay, Kenji,” you say with a warm smile “I’m Y/N and this is Zoro. He’s kind of grumpy, but he’s nice.”

Zoro makes a sound like a scoff, but he doesn’t argue.

Kenji peeks up at Zoro “You have swords…”

Zoro raises a brow “Yeah. Don’t worry. I only use them on bad guys.”

Kenji nods seriously, then looks back at you “You’re really pretty…”

Your face heats up a little. Zoro frowns “Kid, don’t start.”

You laugh, standing up slowly as Kenji keeps his little hand in yours “Alright, let’s find your mom, okay?”

Kenji nods, still holding onto you like you’re his lifeline.

Zoro walks on your other side, still acting cool but every now and then, you catch him glancing down at the kid. And maybe, just maybe, you see a small smile on his face. Just a little one.

You’ve been walking around the town for a while now, asking people if they’ve seen Kenji’s mom. A few shopkeepers shake their heads.

Some say, “Sorry, haven’t seen any woman looking for a kid.”

You try the market square next. No luck there either.

Kenji’s small hand is still in yours, holding tight like he’s afraid to let go. His other hand rubs at his eye now and then, but he’s not crying anymore. Still, he stays close. You’re like his safe space now.

You glance down at him “Kenji, do you remember where you last saw your mom? Were you near a shop?”

He shakes his head slowly “I was looking at fish. Then I turned and she was gone.”

“Fish,” Zoro repeats “That narrows it down to…everywhere.”

You sigh “We’ll keep looking.”

Kenji tugs on your hand “Are you tired? I can walk by myself.”

Your heart melts “I’m okay, Kenji. But thank you.”

Then suddenly he reaches out and grabs Zoro’s hand too and you both freeze. Zoro stares at the small hand holding his, like it’s some kind of bomb.

Kenji doesn’t notice. He just keeps walking like it’s the most normal thing in the world, one hand in yours, one hand in Zoro’s. As if he’s done it a hundred times.

You glance at Zoro, and your face gets warm. Really warm. This…looks kind of cute. No… more than cute. It looks like… a little family.

Zoro’s eye twitches. He knows what it looks like too.

A woman passing by gives you a soft smile “Oh, what a sweet family.”

You nearly choke “Oh! We’re not—uh—we’re just helping—”

Zoro mutters under his breath, “For the love of… please don’t let anyone from the crew see this.”

You whisper back, “Why? Afraid they’ll think you’ve gone soft?”

He scowls “They will. And they’ll never shut up about it.”

But he doesn’t pull his hand away from Kenji’s. Not even when the kid swings his hands a little. You try not to smile too much, but your cheeks still feel hot.

“Y’know,” you say after a moment, “you don’t look that grumpy right now.”

Zoro gives you a side-eye “Say that again and I’ll let you get lost on purpose.”

You grin “Worth it.”

Kenji suddenly asks, “Are you and the sword guy married?”

You and Zoro speak at the same time.

You: “W-what? No!”

Zoro: “Hell no!”

You look at Zoro kinda offended by his tone.

Kenji tilts his head “But you look like it…”

Zoro lets out a long sigh “Kid, you really trying to make my day harder?”

You can’t stop laughing now. Even Zoro, after a beat, smiles just a little. Just enough to make your heart do a little flip.

The sun’s still out, the breeze still nice and you still haven’t found Kenji’s mom, but…you’re doing okay. And as long as the kid keeps walking between you and Zoro, hands held tight, maybe it’s not such a bad way to spend the day.

Kenji’s hand is still snug in yours, and Zoro hasn’t pulled away from the other side either, though his eye twitches every few minutes like he’s trying to pretend it’s not happening.

You’re still wandering through the streets, asking around and scanning every corner for a woman calling out for her son. No luck. Then suddenly, Kenji tugs at your hand and mumbles, “I’m hungry…”

You pause “Oh… right. You haven’t eaten anything.”

Zoro groans immediately “We don’t have time to stop and eat. We’re looking for your mom, remember?”

Kenji’s bottom lip quivers “But… my tummy hurts…”

He rubs his stomach with both hands now, giving you the most tragic look you’ve ever seen. You’re done. Defeated.

“Zoro,” you whisper, “he’s so cute. Let him eat.”

Zoro crosses his arms “He’ll survive. Kids bounce back.”

Kenji grabs your arm again “Please… just a snack?”

Your heart melts into a puddle “Zoroooo…”

Zoro looks at you and you’re doing it too… That look. Eyes wide, soft voice, the tiniest pout. Now both you and Kenji are staring at him like abandoned puppies in the rain.

He curses under his breath “You guys are teaming up on me.”

You say nothing, you just keep pouting. He rubs his face like this is physical pain “Fine. Fine. Twenty minutes.”

Kenji jumps up and cheers “Yay!”

You smile up at Zoro, wrapping your hand around his arm “Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”

He groans again, but you catch the way his ears turn a little red. You head toward a food stall nearby, and as soon as you do, you hear a loud voice call out “Oi! Zoro! Y/N!”

You both turn and there they are.

Luffy and Sanji, carrying way too many bags and snacks.

Sanji’s eyes go wide when he sees the kid. He drops his bags “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

Kenji looks up at you, his mouth full of fried dough “Who’s the loud guy?”

Sanji points dramatically at Zoro “How could you?! You stole her away and now—now you even have a child?!”

Zoro blinks “What are you talking about? Do you know how kids are made?”

Luffy laughs “He looks just like your kid. You’re all holding hands and stuff. It’s so cute! You should make a real one!”

Sanji falls to the ground instantly “I’m dying. I’m literally dead. This is hell.”

You’re laughing too hard to speak.

Kenji, still chewing, leans over to Zoro “Are those your friends? They’re weird.”

Zoro sighs “You have no idea.”

Luffy crouches next to Kenji, nose almost touching his “Heyyy, what’s your name?”

“Kenji!”

“Cool name! You wanna be a pirate?”

Zoro grabs Luffy by the back of his vest and yanks him away “No recruiting children.”

Sanji stands back up, wiping his nose “Mon dieu… Y/N, if you ever decide you want real romance, you know where to find me.”

You smile sweetly “You’d have to fight Zoro for me first.”

Sanji turns pale, not because he’s scared but because you think of Zoro right away “…I’m good.”

Kenji tugs your sleeve again “Are they always like this?”

“Pretty much” you say with a giggle. Zoro mutters, “You get used to it.”

Even as the chaos unfolds, Zoro moves just a little closer to you. His hand brushes against yours again and Kenji, still holding your other hand, starts humming happily between bites.

After the chaos (and mild heartbreak) that was Luffy and Sanji, you wave them off with a tired smile. Sanji is still crying in the background. Luffy’s trying to steal a meat bun from someone’s cart.

“Bye, Kenji!” Luffy shouts cheerfully “Don’t forget to train so you can join my crew!”

“I won’t!” Kenji waves both hands like you’re sending off a ship.

You tug his sleeve gently “Okay, come on. Let’s keep going.”

Zoro mutters under his breath as you walk again, heading farther into the town “Out of everyone… they had to be the ones we run into.”

You smirk “Could’ve been worse.”

“No. That was the worst.”

“Even worse than running into ALL of them together?”

He gives you a sharp side-eye “Don’t push your luck.”

You giggle, swinging Kenji’s hand a little as you walk. He’s full now, calmer, but still sticking to you like glue. Zoro’s hands are back in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. He looks like he wants to complain, but he’s still here. That says enough.

Then, out of nowhere, Kenji tugs at your hand and looks up at you seriously “Miss Y/N? Can I call you Mama?”

You freeze. Everything around you stops. The breeze. The street noise. Even Zoro seems to pause mid-step. You blink at him “W-What?”

Kenji looks a little nervous now, like he’s not sure if he’s done something wrong “I know you’re not really… but you’re really nice, and you make me feel safe like my mama does. I miss her…”

Your throat closes. You don’t even know what to say. Tears prick at your eyes so fast you can’t stop them. One slides down your cheek before you can hide it.

You crouch down, hugging him gently, trying not to cry too hard “Kenji… I’m sure your mom misses you too. We’re gonna find her, okay? I promise.”

He nods, leaning into your hug.

Zoro is quiet behind you. For once, not a single sarcastic comment. When you glance up at him, you see that flicker in his eyes. Something soft. Something… careful. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. And somehow, that silence means more than words.

You’re walking again, slowly now. Kenji hums as he walks between you and Zoro, swinging your hands. He’s more cheerful after eating, even skipping a little. It’s almost hard to believe this is the same scared little boy from earlier.

Then you hear a woman’s voice, panicked and breathless “Kenji?! Kenji!!”

All three of you turn around, a woman is running toward you, her eyes wide with worry. Her hair’s a bit messy.

Kenji gasps “Mama!!”

He lets go of both your hands and runs to her. You and Zoro stop walking, watching as he throws himself into her arms. She catches him and falls to her knees, hugging him tightly.

“Oh, thank god,” she whispers, burying her face in his shoulder “I’ve been looking everywhere, Kenji, I was so scared…”

“I’m okay, Mama!” he says brightly “I wasn’t alone!”

You and Zoro stand quietly a few steps away, watching them hold each other. Zoro crosses his arms and says nothing. But his expression is… softer now. Thoughtful.

Then, Kenji turns and grabs his mom’s hand.

“Come on! Come meet them!” he says, tugging her toward you.

She lets herself be pulled along and gives you a teary smile “You… You helped him?”

You nod “Yeah. He was alone and crying. We couldn’t just leave him.”

She presses a hand to her chest, still catching her breath “Thank you. Truly. I don’t know what I would’ve done—”

She starts reaching into a small pouch “Please, I have a little money—let me give you something.”

You shake your head quickly “Oh no, really. That’s okay. We had… a good day, actually. He’s a sweet kid.”

Kenji beams proudly beside her. Zoro’s still silent, standing with that usual lazy posture.

The woman glances at him, hesitating “Are you sure? Maybe he wants—”

Before she finishes, Zoro shrugs “Y/N did all of it by herself.”

You glance over at him. That’s not true, you both helped. But he says it like he wants to make clear that the kindness was yours. You give him a small smile.

The woman bows slightly “Thank you both again.”

You nod, just about to say goodbye when Kenji suddenly throws his arms around your waist again.

You blink “Kenji…?”

He’s crying again. Quiet, but real tears, as he mumbles “Do you… have to go?”

Your throat tightens “Hey, don’t cry… You’re with your mom now. You’re safe.”

“I know,” he says, sniffling “But I don’t want you to go. I love you… you’re my best friend.”

Tears fill your eyes instantly. You hug him back, squeezing gently, as you whisper “I love you too, Kenji, you’re really brave, you know?”

He looks up at his mom “Can she stay with us?”

Her eyes soften “Sweetheart… she has her own life and friends. But maybe one day you’ll meet again.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve, still clinging to you. Zoro turns away slightly, trying to act like he’s not watching, but his ears are red and in his chest, something warm builds, quiet and slow.

You’re so gentle. So natural with children. And for the first time… He lets the thought sit. Maybe a future like that, with you, soft like this… wouldn’t be so bad.

Eventually, you say goodbye. Kenji waves and waves until he’s out of sight. You and Zoro walk in silence for a few minutes. Then… you feel something. Zoro reaches over and takes your hand.

You blink, surprised “Zoro?”

He doesn’t look at you, eyes straight ahead, face a little pink “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just… thought you might need it.”

You smile, squeezing his hand gently. A few more steps go by before he adds, quietly “You’d be good at it.”

“At what?” you ask.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly “…Being a mom.”

Your heart skips as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye “Not saying right now. Just… someday. If you wanted that.”

You stop for a second, staring at him. He’s not blushing anymore. He’s serious.

You nod, eyes soft “With you… yeah. I think I’d want that someday.”

Zoro looks away quickly, but you see the tiniest smile on his face.

You let go of his hand and he turns to look at you surprised. But then you jump and put your arms around his neck as he grabs you by your waist to steady you.

You kiss him quickly but softly while saying “I love you so much Zoro, thank you.”

He’s still surprised but asks “What are you thanking me for?”

“To think of me when you think about your future.”

He blushes and starts to look away but you catches him saying “Of course I would.”

You smile as you let go of him and then take his hand again as you swing it and walk as you’re the happiest girl in the world, with your biggest smile one and humming a little cute song.

Zoro watches you all the time with the softest smile he ever had.

── .✦ Sanji:

The sun sets behind the island’s hills, painting the sky in soft orange and purple. You can already hear music and laughter in the air. The village is buzzing with excitement.

“We’re just in time for the Moonlight Festival” Nami tells everyone, smiling as a few locals greet her.

“They want us to join?” Luffy asks, his eyes already searching for food.

“Yes,” Robin says “They’ve prepared clothes for us. It’s part of their tradition.”

You glance around. The people here are wearing bright outfits, flowing skirts, golden sashes, beads, and flowers in their hair. It looks magical.

One of the village girls walks up to you, holding a folded dress.

“For you,” she says with a kind smile “You’ll look beautiful in it.”

Sanji’s eyes narrow, already hovering at your side “She always does” he says softly, brushing a hand across your lower back.

You smile and take the dress inside a small tent to change.

When you step out, the crew is waiting. Zoro looks away with a bored expression. Usopp whistles.

But Sanji… he freezes. His face turns red in two seconds. Then an elegant nosebleed.

“Oh my god, Sanji!” you rush to him as he stumbles back, heart-shaped eyes glowing like lanterns.

“You… You can’t just walk out looking like that, mon amour,” he gasps “I was not prepared. That dress—you… your everything—!”

You laugh “You’re so dramatic.”

“I am in love,” he moans, holding a hand over his nose “And now I’m dying.”

“Save it for later, lovebirds,” Nami rolls her eyes “Let’s go! The festival’s starting!”

The streets are glowing with lanterns. Drums beat in the background. Kids are running around with flower crowns. You hold Sanji’s hand tight as you pull him through the crowd.

“Wait, wait—look!” you gasp, pointing to a stall “Caramel apples!”

Sanji chuckles “Mon amour, you know I can make you better ones. Twice as sweet. Three times as shiny.”

“Yeah, but these are festival apples,” you grin, bouncing on your heels “It’s different!”

He groans playfully but fishes some coins from his pocket “Fine. Who am I to stop you from being adorable?”

You grab the apple and take a big bite “Mmm! Okay. Yours are still better.”

He smirks “Told you.”

You two stroll past more stalls. Roasted nuts, cotton candy, fruit juice in bamboo cups… you try everything. Sanji keeps spoiling you without complaint, even if he keeps saying, “You know I could cook all of this for you, mon trésor.”

You wipe a bit of syrup off his cheek with your thumb “Yeah, but this is more fun.”

You turn a corner and freeze “Sanji!” you gasp.

“Hm?”

“There!” You point to a game stall. Behind it is a giant plushie… a round, smiling bear with soft ears and a flower crown.

Sanji squints “You want that thing?”

“Yes! It’s so cute!”

But before you can step forward, a group of small kids run up.

“We saw it first!” one of them shouts.

“No way! I’m gonna win it!” another boy says, grabbing a ball from the counter.

You look at Sanji. He cracks his knuckles and smiles “A competition, huh?”

“Winner takes the bear!” the tallest kid says.

Sanji kneels to their level, grinning “Alright, little ones. You’re on.”

Sanji throws the first ball... Miss.

“Damn it—”

The ball bounces off the edge of the target, knocking over nothing but his pride.

“Too slow, old man!” the little boy cackles and throws his own. Miss.

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Oh-ho? You think you’re better?”

“I am better!” the kid huffs, grabbing another ball. Miss again.

Sanji leans in “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Your aim is trash.”

“So is yours.”

They go back and forth for the next minute. Ball after ball. Miss after miss. Neither hits a single target. Sanji’s hair is messier now, and the kid’s cheeks are puffed in frustration.

You cross your arms and bite your lip to stop laughing. Finally, Sanji steps back, hands on his hips.

“This game is clearly rigged.”

The kid points at him “You’re just mad because you lost.”

“You lost too!” Sanji snaps back, eyes wide.

“Only ‘cause you distracted me with your loud yelling!”

They both look exhausted and full of mutual respect…and mutual failure.

You walk up between them and say, “Okay. My turn.”

Sanji blinks “Mon amour, are you sure? It’s harder than it looks—”

“I wanna try.” you say, handing him the caramel apple you’re still holding.

You pick up the ball. It’s heavier than you thought, but manageable. You narrow your eyes, pull back your arm and… You knock over all three cans. Clean.

Sanji’s jaw drops. The little boy gasps so loudly, you think he might pass out.

The game keeper just laughs and hands you the giant plushie “Well done, miss!”

You grin and hug the bear tight “I did it!”

Sanji laughs, not caring at all about being shown up “You’re amazing!” he says proudly “Absolutely perfect.”

He kisses your cheek with zero shame “My talented goddess.”

But the kid… the kid is just staring at you now. Like something huge just clicked in his little brain.

“…What?” you ask, smiling at him “You can still try again, maybe there’s another plush—”

“I love you.”

You blink “Huh?”

“I don’t know why,” he says, completely serious “But I do.”

You stand there with your plushie, speechless. Sanji snorts so hard he has to turn around to hide his laugh.

“Is it the bear?” you ask gently.

The boy shakes his head “It’s your face. And your power.”

Sanji is wheezing now “That’s a strong statement, mon petit rival.”

“I said what I said,” the kid replies firmly, hands in his pockets “If you break up with him, I’ll wait for you.”

You pat his head “Thanks, but… I don’t think that’ll happen.”

He sighs “Fine. But just know… you’re my first love now.”

Sanji finally turns around, wiping tears from his eyes “I’ve been defeated. By a child.”

You both laugh, holding hands again. You keep walking through the festival lights, one giant plush bear in your arms, and the chef at your side.

The night deepens, and the music slows down.

Soft lanterns float above the square, swaying gently in the warm breeze. They’re glowing in different colors as orange, pink, soft blue, like slow-moving stars. Couples begin dancing in the middle of the cobblestone plaza.

Sanji gently tugs your hand “Dance with me, mon amour?”

You grin and nod “Only if you don’t step on my feet.”

“I would rather die.”

He places one hand on your waist, the other holding yours with a practiced ease. His touch is warm and careful, like he’s afraid to break you. You sway together under the lanterns, the sounds of violins and laughter floating around you.

“You look beautiful in this light.” he says quietly.

You look up at him, smiling “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You lean into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. This moment is soft. Sweet. Just the two of you… until…

“HEY, Y/N!”

Your head jerks up. You turn. A small voice echoes through the crowd.

Sanji’s brows twitch “No.”

Walking through the legs of villagers, holding something behind his back, is that kid.

Your jaw drops “How do you know my name?”

He stops right in front of you, puffing his chest like a tiny warrior “The idiot said it like five times while we were throwing balls. ‘You’ve got this, Y/N! Knock ‘em down, Y/N!’”

You blink “Oh… yeah. That sounds like him.”

Sanji coughs “You remembered that?”

The kid pulls out what he was hiding behind his back, a delicate, glowing flower. Its petals shimmer like they’ve been dusted with stardust.

“This is for you,” the boy says, holding it out with both hands like an offering “You deserve something this pretty.”

Your heart does a little owh at the sweetness “Aww… thank you.”

You take it gently, not wanting to crush it.

Sanji, meanwhile, stares at the flower. Then at the kid. Then at you.

He chuckles lightly “How… thoughtful.”

You glance at him “You okay?”

“Oh, me? Perfectly fine,” he says with a smile that’s way too tight “Just enjoying the sight of my girlfriend being courted by an eight-year-old.”

The kid looks up at him “Nine.”

“Ah, of course. My mistake,” Sanji says, voice calm but eyes twitching “A mature gentleman.”

“Way cooler than you.” the boy mumbles.

Sanji crouches down slightly, still smiling “You want a kitchen knife to go with that flower, mon petit rival?”

You step between them, laughing “Okay, okay, enough. This is getting weird.”

The kid sighs and shrugs “I’ll just wait till you’re single. No rush.”

“There will be no waiting.” Sanji grits through his teeth.

“Time is on my side, old man.”

“SHE’S MY AGE TOO!” Sanji yells irritated.

You nearly drop the flower from laughing so hard. You pat the boy on the head again “You’re really sweet, but I’m staying with the idiot for now.”

“Forever,” Sanji corrects “She’s staying with me forever.”

“Yeah, yeah. For now…” the boy says, walking away into the lantern lights.

You turn to Sanji, still giggling “You were jealous.”

He raises a hand, dramatic as ever “I can’t believe he kept insulting me. I was not jealous. I was threatened.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He sighs “Okay. I was… mildly unsettled.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

He smirks again “And you’re always cute. But please… no more nine-year-old rivals.”

The music quiets. The stalls are closing. Lanterns start floating into the sky, some by string, some released into the wind with wishes written on paper. The villagers begin gathering near the beach and hilltops.

You stretch your arms with a happy sigh, the big plushie still tucked under one arm “It’s almost time for fireworks, right?”

Sanji nods and gently takes your hand “Follow me, mon love. I found us a better spot. Private. High up. Just us.”

“Romantic?”

He grins “Always.”

He leads you up a narrow path behind the main square, through a line of trees. A few lanterns hang along the way, giving the path a warm glow. Eventually, you reach a small wooden platform, almost like an old lookout. There’s a railing, a perfect view of the sky, and just enough space for the two of you to stand side by side.

You lean against the railing, wide-eyed “This is perfect…”

Sanji steps behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder “I know. Just like you.”

You snort “Cheesy.”

He kisses your temple “True.”

Just as the wind picks up slightly and you snuggle closer into his arms…“Hey!”

You both turn your heads.

It’s the kid. Again.

Sanji groans, stepping forward “Are you following us now?”

The boy crosses his arms “I think destiny wants me and Y/N together.”

Sanji points at him “She’s literally standing here with me, holding the bear I helped her win—”

“I pushed you to give up and her winning it, so technically I helped too.”

“You called me ‘trash’ and insulted me!”

“And yet… here we are.” He spreads his arms as if the universe just proved his point.

You lean on the railing, grinning like an idiot while they go at it again “I feel like I should get popcorn for this.”

The kid puffs up his chest “You’ll thank me when we’re married one day.”

“I am going to faint.” Sanji rubs his face.

You laugh softly, eyes crinkling with joy. The two of them are so dramatic in their own ways… Sanji with his poetic French curses, and the kid with his over-the-top confidence.

But then the sky explodes into light.

You gasp and rush toward the railing, hands gripping the wood. Fireworks bloom above the hills, one after another, bursts of gold, red, green, and silver painting the night. Some twinkle, some crackle, some swirl in spiral shapes like dancing stars.

“Whoa…” you whisper, completely forgetting the chaos behind you.

Then, beside you, another small gasp. You glance down. It’s the kid.

His eyes are wide. His mouth slightly open in wonder “They’re… huge.”

“Is this your first time seeing fireworks?” you ask.

He nods slowly “Yeah. They’re… kinda magical.”

You smile, your face glowing with the same light reflecting in the sky “Right?”

Behind you, Sanji watches the two of you from a few steps back.

You’re both standing at the railing, heads tilted up, eyes full of wonder, soft smiles on your faces. The flower the kid gave you is tucked in your hair. The bear still in your arms. And somehow, in that one moment, you and the kid… look similar.

Same joy. Same spark. Same heart.

Sanji feels something shift in his chest. Not jealousy. Not annoyance. Something deeper. Warmer.

He pictures this moment again, but years in the future. You, at the railing, holding a small hand. Your child’s hand.

Their eyes lighting up like yours. That same smile. That same awe. And he’s there too, arms around both of you. His future, clear as the fireworks above.

You turn around and catch his gaze “Sanji?”

He blinks and smiles softly “Sorry. Just… thinking about how lucky I am.”

You raise an eyebrow “Because we won the bear?”

“No,” he says, stepping forward to join you at the railing “Because I get to watch you fall in love with everything.”

You rest your head on his shoulder again, your free hand finding his.

“With me?” The kid says.

“NO! DROP IT!” Sanji yells at him but then they both smile and keep watching the fireworks as they keep blooming. And Sanji is already planning forever.

The last firework bursts in a shower of silver and gold, lingering like a sparkler in the night sky. Then silence.

Soft cheers rise from the village below. The glow fades, lanterns flickering low. The magic of the moment hangs in the air for just a little longer, like it doesn’t want to end.

You sigh, still holding Sanji’s hand “That was perfect…”

Next to you, the kid is still staring at the sky. But the fireworks are gone now, long finished. Yet he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His eyes are wide, his mouth just barely open. He looks like he’s still inside that wonder.

You smile at him “Hey… by the way… What’s your name?”

He blinks, like he’s waking up from a dream “Oh. It’s Tama.”

“Nice to meet you, Tama.” You kneel down a bit so you’re closer to his height “What do you wanna be when you grow up?”

Without hesitation “A pirate.”

You laugh softly “Really?”

He nods, proud “A brave one. With a big ship. I’ll visit all the islands with weird animals and floating rocks and treasure.”

Sanji smirks beside you, hands in his pockets “Then I guess we’ll keep being rivals even out at sea, huh?”

Tama gives him a sharp side-eye “I’ll have to steal y/n from you and out-pirate you.”

Sanji grins “Try me, mon petit.”

You giggle and ruffle Tama’s hair gently “Well, I hope we meet again when you’re out there chasing dreams.”

Tama glances up at you “What about you? What do you want to be?”

You pause. It’s not something you really think about. You look over at Sanji… messy blond hair, gentle smile, the way he’s still looking at you like the stars are in your eyes instead of the sky.

You shrug “I don’t care what I become. I just want to be with Sanji forever.”

Sanji freezes for a moment.

Then, he lets out a quiet breath, like someone just handed him the whole world.

His voice is soft “You’ll never have to wish for that, mon amour. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tama watches you both. He’s quiet. No more smug grins or snappy lines.

Then, slowly, he nods. He tucks his hands into his pockets and gives you a small smile, real and warm “Then it’s good the idiot is so persistent.”

Sanji raises an eyebrow “Hey—”

Tama doesn’t look at him. He’s looking at you “You’re really happy. I can tell.” His voice is calm now, like something inside him understands something bigger “So… I’m okay with it.”

Your heart softens “Thank you, Tama.”

Then, without fully thinking, you smile even wider and say, “Sanji, I hope our future baby is going to be like him.”

Tama blinks, clearly unsure what to say to that. Maybe even a little embarrassed. But he nods slowly, lips pressing together in a shy smile.

Sanji stops breathing.

He stares at you, completely still, as if the fireworks just restarted behind his eyes. That sentence… so casual, so soft… hit harder than anything tonight. Our future baby...

You’re thinking about it. About a future. About family. And not just that. You’re thinking about it with him. His heart squeezes in his chest.

You’re here, in his arms. You’re in love. And you’re imagining a child with his smile and your eyes, running around somewhere under the same stars.

You turn and see the look in Sanji’s eyes.

He’s smiling, but there’s something deeper behind it. Something full. Something that says, I heard that.

You just smile back, knowing he doesn’t need to say a word.

Tama shrugs and turns around “Don’t get too comfy though. I’ll be cooler than him someday.”

Sanji puts an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close “We’ll be cheering for you… maybe.”

Tama waves over his shoulder, heading back toward the village, lantern light flickering around him.

You and Sanji stay a little longer at the lookout, arms wrapped around each other, the flower still in your hair, and the last warmth of the fireworks still in your hearts.

The festival is over. But something even better stayed behind with you…

Love. Peace. And the promise of forever.

── .✦ Law:

The sea is calm. The deck is quiet. You wipe your hands with a towel and step out of the infirmary for some air. A peaceful day. For once.

“GUYS! GUYS!! I’m back!!”

Bepo’s voice booms from the ramp. You glance over, blinking. Law appears from the hallway behind you, arms crossed and already frowning. Penguin and Shachi pop their heads out of the engine room.

“Why are you yelling?” Law asks, sharp.

“I got everything!” Bepo shouts, jogging up “But also—uh—”

He’s carrying something. No. Someone. It’s a kid.

A little girl, maybe five years old, wrapped in one of Bepo’s spare coats. Her hair’s messy, face pale. No shoes. She looks completely terrified.

Shachi stares “That’s a child.”

“Bepo,” Law growls “You didn’t…”

“I had to!” Bepo pleads “She was hiding behind crates in the market. All alone. People walked right past her. Like she wasn’t even there!”

“So you picked her up and brought her here?!” Law’s tone spikes.

“I couldn’t leave her! I asked around, but no one knew her. No one cared! She wouldn’t talk to anyone but me!”

The girl looks around fast… strangers, loud voices, sharp tones. She panics.

Her eyes lock on you, maybe because you’re the only woman here at the moment, maybe because you’re not yelling, and suddenly she jumps out of Bepo’s arms.

“Wait—!” Bepo yells.

Too late. She runs straight to you and throws her arms around your waist, hugging you like her life depends on it.

You freeze.

“Woah—hey, hey,” you say softly, instinct kicking in. You crouch down, hands gentle on her arms “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

She buries her face in your chest and doesn’t say a word. Everyone is staring.

“Y/N,” Law says, voice low “Do you know her?”

You shake your head “Never seen her before.”

“Then why is she hugging you like that?” Penguin asks, confused.

You rub her back carefully “She’s scared. She saw someone safe. That’s all.”

Law narrows his eyes, crouching beside you.

“Kid,” he says quietly, “what’s your name?”

“…Mimi.” she whispers.

“How old are you, Mimi?”

She holds up five fingers without looking up.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

She shakes her head.

“Do you remember anything?”

She shrugs.

Law stands up “Fantastic.”

“I don’t get it,” Shachi says “Why would she run to Y/N? Just randomly?”

“She doesn’t know me,” you say, still holding Mimi gently “She was just scared.”

“She’s still shaking,” Bepo murmurs “I think she really was in danger.”

Law opens his mouth to reply, but footsteps thunder up from below deck.

“Ikkaku!” Penguin says as she appears, out of breath.

“Captain!” she gasps, holding up a tablet “Emergency Marine alert. I just picked it up from the city’s comms.”

“What kind of alert?” Law asks, tone serious.

She flips the screen around “They’re searching for a missing child. Classified level. No name. No photo. Just this—”

She swipes again. A blurry snail-cam image. It’s Mimi. Wearing that same coat.

“…Shit.” Law mutters.

Everyone stares at the screen.

“Why are the Marines looking for a five-year-old?” Shachi asks, stunned.

“Classified level? That’s not normal” Penguin adds.

Ikkaku reads off the report “Orders are to retrieve the child alive. No reason listed. But every local base is on alert. They think pirates might have taken her.”

Mimi stiffens. She presses closer to you.

“…Bad men,” she whispers “Mama said they’d come…”

“Mimi,” you say softly, “do you know who the bad men are?”

She shakes her head quickly “The marines… that I had to run. Mama said… find someone kind. Someone who felt safe.”

She looks up at you then. Big, frightened eyes.

You smile gently “You found me, don’t worry.”

Law steps beside you, staring down at the kid. His hand brushes yours.

“Y/N,” he says quietly, “She can’t stay on deck.”

You nod.

“She stays below, for now” Law says, turning to the crew “And no one talks about her. Not a word. We figure this out before the Marines come knocking.”

Bepo lets out a breath “Thank you, Captain.”

Law glances back at you and Mimi “Don’t thank me yet. This is trouble.”

“She’s just a kid,” you murmur, carrying her gently as you stand “We’ll protect her.”

Law’s voice softens “Yeah. We will.”

The door closes behind you both with a quiet click. The hallway outside Law’s quarters is silent now. You and Law stand inside the dimly lit room, away from the crew, away from Mimi.

He leans against the desk, arms folded, hat on the surface next to him. His jaw is tight. You’re pacing.

“She’s five, Law,” you say “Five. And terrified. You saw her face.”

“I know what I saw,” he replies, coldly calm “But she’s not just any kid, Y/N. She’s being hunted by the Marines. That’s not normal.”

“She didn’t ask to be hunted,” you shoot back “She didn’t choose any of this!”

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice rises slightly.

You stop pacing “Then why are you looking at her like she’s a problem?”

He straightens “Because right now? She is. She’s a risk. For all of us.”

You flinch.

“Oh, great,” you say, sarcasm slipping in “Glad to know your heart’s still functioning.”

His eyes narrow “Don’t twist my words.”

“I’m not twisting anything! You’re acting like she’s a ticking time bomb!”

“I’m being realistic!” he snaps “You always do this—take in strays without thinking!”

You freeze. The words echo. You always do this.

Your chest tightens “Then is that what I am to you?” you whisper “Some stray you took in?”

Law’s expression shifts instantly “What? No—”

You shake your head, stepping back, voice low and bitter “Forget it. I’m done.”

He moves toward you “Y/N, wait—”

“No,” you say, turning for the door “You wanted to be realistic? Fine. Be alone with your logic. I’m going to be with the actual human being we rescued.”

You slam the door on your way out.

You sit cross-legged on the floor of the small guest room, paper and colored pencils spread out between you and Mimi. She holds a red pencil in her small hand, tongue poking out a little as she focuses hard on drawing something.

You force yourself to smile “That’s a very good cat, Mimi.”

“It’s you” she says, showing you proudly.

You laugh gently “Oh! I’m the cat?”

She nods “You were soft when I hugged you.”

You pause “That’s… really sweet, actually.”

She looks up at you “Are you mad?”

Your smile fades “Why would you think that?”

“You left fast. Like Mama did… when she was mad.”

Ouch.

You set your pencil down and reach out, tucking her hair behind her ear “I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

“Then who?”

You sigh “Just… someone I love. We said some things we didn’t mean.”

She nods like she gets it “Mama and Papa did that too. Then they’d be quiet for a while. But after, they hugged a lot.”

You smile faintly “Maybe we’ll get there.”

Mimi turns back to her paper “Do you think my Mama’s okay?”

Your heart aches “I hope so, Mimi. I really do.”

You pick up a blue pencil and draw beside her in silence for a while. The sound of coloring fills the small room. For a little while, it’s peaceful again.

Even if your chest still burns with anger and something else you don’t want to admit yet. Not hurt. Just… disappointed.

The hallway outside the guest room is quiet now.

Right now, it’s just you and Mimi, surrounded by colored pencils and messy drawings. She laughs when your stick figure ends up with five arms. You giggle along, your mood slowly softening.

“Look!” she says proudly, holding up her latest masterpiece. It’s her, you, and what might be Bepo if you squint. You’ve all got huge smiles and stars around your heads.

“That’s amazing,” you say, genuinely impressed “Did you make me taller than Bepo?”

She nods “Because you’re strong.”

Your heart actually hurts a little at that “You’re the strong one, Mimi.”

She looks up at you, eyes wide and happy. It’s the first time she’s looked this light since she came aboard. Something warm blooms in your chest. You don’t say it aloud, but this feels… right.

She deserves moments like this. You both do.

There’s a soft knock at the doorframe. You turn and Law stands there. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just… watches.

You see his eyes flick to Mimi, then back to you. The scene freezes him. Like he’s seeing something he wasn’t ready for. Like he’s seeing you with a child in your lap, laughing, gentle, bright. Like family.

You look away first. Mimi doesn’t notice. She’s too busy coloring in the sky purple.

Law jerks his head toward the hallway, silently asking for a word. You hesitate.

Then slowly stand up, brushing your hands off “I’ll be right back, okay?” you whisper to Mimi.

“Okay.” she says without looking up.

You follow Law out into the hall. The door closes behind you, soft and careful. He runs a hand through his hair. He looks… tired. And guilty.

“I deserved everything you said earlier” he starts.

You don’t speak yet.

“I was angry. Not at you. At the situation. At how helpless it made me feel. It reminds me a lot of when… nevermind.”

Still, you wait.

“I wanted to do something. So I called in favors. Checked restricted comms. Dug deep.”

You lift your eyes to meet his “And?”

“I found out who her mother was,” he says “They were living on the outskirts of a Marine-controlled zone. Poor. Invisible. Perfect targets.”

Your throat tightens.

“She died,” Law continues “A week ago. Protecting Mimi. Marines were already closing in. Her mother fought back alone. Got her daughter away. Then…”

He trails off.

You stare “…Mimi saw that happen?”

He nods “But I think she doesn’t remember it. Or won’t. Trauma like that… it can block memories completely. Especially in kids.”

Your back presses to the wall “She… thinks her mom is still out there.”

“I know,” he says quietly “I was hoping she was. I wanted to go find her. Bring her here. Give Mimi the ending she deserved.”

You press your hands to your face “God…”

Law steps closer “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”

You lower your hands slowly, voice shaking “You thought I’d fall apart?”

“No,” he says “I thought I would.”

That makes you look at him.

“I saw you with her just now,” he says “And I thought… maybe we could give her something close to a family. Not perfect. Not planned. But something.”

Silence hangs heavy for a second.

“I’m sorry,” he says again “For the fight. For what I said.”

You nod slowly “I was mad. But I never stopped trusting you.”

He reaches for your hand. You let him take it.

“She’s all alone now” you whisper.

“Not if we stay” he says.

You squeeze his fingers “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s been three months since Mimi came aboard. She doesn’t cry at night anymore. She doesn’t flinch when someone raises their voice.

She laughs. Loudly. She steals snacks with Penguin, watches Shachi build models, draws on Bepo’s fur while he naps, and sometimes, when she’s really sleepy, she crawls into your bed without saying a word and snuggles between you and Law.

You and Law never talk about it, and neither does the crew, but everyone sees the way Mimi holds your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The way Law makes sure she eats, takes her medicine, wears a coat when it’s cold, even when he grumbles about it. The way her drawings now always have three people in them.

You, her, and Law.

She knows the truth now. She remembers it all… her mother, the chase, the moment she lost her, the fear. It came back slowly, in pieces, but she never fell apart.

She held on. To you. To him. And now it’s time.

You found a safe place for her, a quiet island far from Marine eyes. A good family who knew her mother once, who wants to care for Mimi like their own. A home with books, and warm food, and other children. It’s the best chance she’ll ever get.

She knows it. She understands.

But even understanding doesn’t make it easy.

On the third-to-last day, you find Mimi sitting with Bepo in the garden space at the top of the sub. She’s holding her sketchbook.

“Hey,” you say gently, sitting down beside her “Can I see what you’re drawing?”

She turns the book around. It’s you and Law again… only this time, she’s drawn herself in the middle, holding both your hands. Above you is a sun with a smiling face.

Your chest aches.

“I like when we’re together.” she says, matter-of-fact.

“I do too.”

She leans against your arm “You’re not mad, right? That I said yes to going?”

You pause “Never. Mimi, we want you to be safe. That’s what matters most.”

She goes quiet for a second “But I’ll still miss you. A lot.”

You stroke her hair softly “I’ll miss you too. Every day.”

She looks up “Do you think Captain Law will miss me?”

You smile “I know he will.”

That night, Law finds you alone in the infirmary, pretending to organize the medical supplies. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed.

“You’re avoiding me” he says.

“No I’m not” you lie instantly.

“Y/N.”

You sigh and sit down on the cot “I just… don’t know how to say goodbye.”

He walks in, quiet, and sits beside you “You don’t have to.”

You glance at him.

“We’ll find a way to see her again,” he says “Even if it’s just from a distance. I promise.”

Your eyes sting “She’s the best thing that ever happened to this ship.”

He nods “She’s one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

You look at him, surprised.

“I didn’t think I could… do this,” he says “Feel like this. But she made me believe in something again. She made me remember if Corazon and even understand him more now.”

You reach out and take his hand “She made us a family, didn’t she?”

Law squeezes your hand gently.

“And we’ll let her go,” he says “Because that’s what family does. We protect them. Even when it hurts.”

The crew stands in a quiet line on the deck.

Bepo is the first to kneel down, huge paws gentle as he hugs Mimi tightly.

“Don’t forget me” he says, voice shaking.

“I could never.” she whispers, burying her face in his fur.

Penguin gives her a pack of candy and awkwardly pats her head “Eat this when you miss us, okay?”

Shachi kneels next “We’ll miss you, shrimp. Stay awesome.”

Ikkaku lifts Mimi’s little hand and presses a friendship bracelet into her palm “For luck” she says, smiling even though her eyes are red.

Everyone says their goodbyes. Everyone hugs her.

You stand back, next to Law, holding your breath. Watching. Trying to stay calm. But your chest feels tight. Your hands shake and Law, quiet and steady beside you, notices. He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches out and takes your hand in his. Warm, grounding. Solid.

You glance down, surprised. He never does this in front of the crew. Your fingers curl around his slowly. It helps. You’re grateful.

Mimi turns at last and walks up to you both. Her steps are slower now. Her smile is gone. And when she reaches you, she breaks.

Her small arms wrap around your waist so hard it knocks the air out of you “I don’t wanna go.” she sobs.

You drop to your knees and hold her, tears falling fast “I know, baby. I know.”

“I wanna stay with you. And Law. And Bepo and everyone. I don’t want a new house.”

“I know. But this is the safest place. It’s what your mama wanted. And we’ll still love you. Always.”

She shakes her head, crying harder. You don’t want to let go. You really, really don’t. And Law… he just stands there, quiet, one hand resting gently on your back as you cry into Mimi’s hair.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s there. Holding you up in the way he always does.

When you finally pull away, your eyes meet his and he gives you the smallest nod. You nod back.

It’s time. Mimi turns to him slowly.

She throws her arms around his legs without a word. Law stiffens.

Then, very awkwardly, he kneels and hugs her back. His movements are a little stiff, unsure, but he doesn’t let go too quickly.

“I’m gonna miss you, Captain Law” she mumbles.

“…I’ll miss you too.” he says, voice low.

You blink. You’ve never heard him say that out loud.

When she lets go, her eyes are red and puffy, but she wipes them on her sleeve like a little soldier. Then she walks with the woman who came to get her, toward the small transport boat.

But just before she steps down the ramp, she stops, turns around, wipes her face and yells, loud as ever “HEY!”

Everyone jumps.

“If you ever give me a little brother or sister,” she says proudly, “I better get to meet them! I’ll be the best big sister in the world!”

Dead silence. Your jaw drops. Law’s eyes widen just slightly.

The crew turns to look at you both and absolutely loses it.

Penguin snorts. Shachi wheezes. Ikkaku starts clapping. Even Bepo chuckles behind a paw.

You and Law look in opposite directions at the same time, completely red-faced, avoiding each other’s eyes like it’s life or death.

“I… what…” you stammer.

“I didn’t…” Law mutters.

Mimi waves from the ramp, beaming “BYEEEE!”

And with that… she’s gone. Leaving behind stunned silence, a warm sea breeze and a very awkward question neither of you has ever asked before.

The door to Law’s studio closes behind you with a soft click. The sound of laughter still echoes faintly down the hall as the crew keeps joking about Mimi’s parting gift.

You and Law don’t say a word.

You wave a hand dismissively toward the corridor like go away, and Law rubs his forehead in quiet frustration as you both walk deeper into the room.

You drop onto the old sofa with a dramatic sigh. Your legs flop over the side “That kid really knows how to drop a bomb” you mumble into a pillow.

Law says nothing. He just walks toward his desk and sits down heavily, glancing at a stack of papers that definitely aren’t important right now.

“…So…” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, still hiding in the couch.

He clears his throat “Have you ever… uh. Thought about… you know.”

You peek at him “About what.”

He doesn’t look at you “A kid. Of your own.”

You squint “Why are you talking like that? You sound like Bepo when he ate spoiled mochi.”

He shoots you a look and you laugh, then immediately groan and hide your face in your hands.

“Oh god, I can’t believe we’re actually talking about this.”

“You didn’t answer” he says.

You peek through your fingers at him “Did you think about it before?”

He shrugs one shoulder “No. Not seriously.”

He stands up and walks over. He kneels in front of you and gently pulls your hands away from your face, exposing your cheeks and all the heat blooming in them.

His voice is soft “But now… I don’t hate the idea.”

Your heart skips. Your mouth opens and for once, no teasing comes out. Just a quiet little truth.

“…Same,” you say “If it’s with you.”

His ears go red. He clears his throat again, standing up abruptly like you just slapped him with a compliment.

“Don’t say stuff like that so easily” he mutters.

You laugh, covering your own red cheeks again “You started it!”

He turns back to his desk, muttering something under his breath.

You’re not sure what he’s thinking. But his shoulders relax a little while his hand lingers on the edge of his chair, like maybe he’s imagining what another little voice in this room might sound like someday.

── .✦ Shanks:

The sun is warm on your shoulders. The smell of grilled fish, sea salt, and cheap beer fills the open-air restaurant. You’re sitting beside Shanks, your legs draped over his lap, one arm around his broad shoulders. He’s laughing loud, one hand resting on your thigh, a bottle in the other.

The Red-Haired Pirates are noisy,talking with full mouths, yelling jokes across the table, getting into friendly fights over who gets the last crab claw.

You’re smiling, head leaning against Shanks’ shoulder, completely relaxed. Then you notice a woman, maybe in her twenties, carrying a small kid, probably two or three years old, on her hip. She’s standing near the entrance, eyes scanning the place fast, like she’s searching for someone. Her brows are drawn tight, lips pressed together.

“Shanks…” you murmur, nudging him with your elbow.

He follows your gaze.

She spots you. Her eyes go wide with something like hope. She walks fast toward your table, clutching the child tighter, muttering “excuse me” as she passes the crew. The little one, a girl, blinks up at everyone with big sleepy eyes. She stops right in front of you.

“Hi,” she says, out of breath “I—Sorry to bother you. I know who you are. You’re Shanks’ crew, right?”

You blink “Uh, yeah. That’s us.”

The woman shifts her weight, bouncing the kid gently “I know this is weird. Really weird. But I—I need help.”

Shanks straightens a little beside you. His arm slides behind your back but he stays quiet, letting you speak first.

“What kind of help?” you ask slowly, looking from the kid to her.

“My babysitter canceled last minute. I’m already late for work—I’ll lose my job if I don’t show up. It’s only for a few hours. Please,” she pleads “I don’t know anyone on this island, and you… well, I’ve seen you in the papers. You’re not bad people.”

You open your mouth to answer, then close it.

The little girl is chewing on her own shirt, blinking at you with big brown eyes. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair’s tied up in a tiny puff.

You glance at Shanks. He’s watching you with that gentle smile of his. His eyes are soft. He doesn’t say anything, he just squeezes your hip lightly, like he’s telling you, Your choice.

“I don’t know anything about kids.” you say, voice low, nervous.

“You’ll be fine,” the woman says quickly “She’s easy. Doesn’t cry much. Her name’s Emi.”

The little girl makes a tiny sound, like she’s trying to say something but decides against it.

You look at Shanks again. He smiles wider.

“I’ll help you,” you say finally, sighing “Only for a few hours.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.” the woman breathes. She kisses the kid’s forehead and whispers something into her ear. Then she hands her over to you.

The moment Emi’s in your arms, she goes still. Warm and small. A little heavy. She smells like soap and bananas.

The woman gives you her name, a quick “I’ll be back before sunset.” and then she’s gone.

You sit there frozen. Shanks looks down at Emi in your lap. Then back up at you.

“You look terrified.” he says, chuckling.

“I am terrified.” you whisper.

“Want me to hold her?”

You shake your head slowly “No… I think I got this.”

Then Emi sneezes on your chest.

“Okay,” you groan “Maybe not.”

Shanks is already laughing.

At first, Emi just… sits there. On your lap. Quiet, blinking, nose still a little runny. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move much either. Just holds a tiny stuffed rabbit in one hand and sucks her thumb with the other.

You’re stiff as a mast. Shanks drapes his arm around your shoulders, whispering in your ear, “You’re holding her like she’s a bomb.”

“I’ve held swords with more confidence...” you mutter back.

He laughs, soft and deep, and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear “Try putting her on the bench next to you. Let her get used to everyone.”

You do. Emi shifts to sit beside you, rabbit clutched to her chest. She peeks around the table. The crew watches her like she’s a sea monster that just learned to smile.

“Hi, Emi!” Lucky Roux waves with a toothy grin “Wanna try some pineapple?”

She buries her face in your side.

Yasopp chuckles “You sure she’s not scared of you, Y/N?”

“She should be.” you say dryly.

But over time, it changes. Slowly. Emi starts pointing at things on the table. A shrimp. A spoon. A shiny gold coin someone dropped. You tell her the names. You offer her a piece of soft bread, and she takes it with two hands like it’s a treasure.

An hour later, you’re wiping jam off her chin with a napkin and helping her clap to Benn’s bad humming of a lullaby tune. She giggles when you make a fish face at her. You giggle back. And Shanks is quiet. He watches.

Not in a smug or teasing way. He’s not smirking. He’s not laughing with the others when Yasopp says, “Look at this! Y/N’s got the mom vibe going strong!”

He just… looks.

You glance at him and find his jaw a little tight. His drink untouched. His gaze heavy on you and the child. Like he’s thinking hard about something he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“Captain?” you ask softly.

He blinks, like he’s been pulled out of somewhere far away “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

He nods. Too fast.

Roux leans over with a grin “Hey, Shanks. You gonna put a ring on it if she starts popping out mini Shank’s?”

Everyone laughs.

You feel your face heat up, heart thudding a little “Oh my God—can you all shut up?”

“I want to marry her.” Shanks says suddenly.

Silence. Everyone stares.

You slowly turn to him “What?”

He meets your eyes. His voice is even, but his expression is… different. Calm on the surface, but his eyes are darker than usual “If she wanted that too. Yeah.”

You feel Emi rest her head on your arm, yawning, rabbit smushed between her face and your side.

You’re not sure what to say. The crew fumbles between teasing and trying not to look too shocked.

Shanks finally looks away, picking up his drink again.

Benn watches him for a long second. Then quietly says, “Alright, alright. Let’s not scare the kid, huh?”

And just like that, the noise starts up again. Jokes. Laughter. Loud plates. Big bites.

But Shanks doesn’t joke anymore, and you don’t miss the way he keeps looking at you like there’s something he’s not saying. Something that makes your heart beat a little faster.

Then everything fall falls apart when Emi gets bored.

One minute she’s snuggled against you, soft and sleepy, her rabbit tucked under her chin. The next she’s on her feet, running full speed down the middle of the open-air tavern, arms flapping like wings.

“EMI!” you shout, scrambling to follow her.

Your drink spills. A spoon clatters to the ground. Shanks laughs under his breath and gets up with you, already moving.

She darts under a table where two drunk fishermen are playing cards, crawls past their feet like some kind of tiny demon, and pops up between a tray of grilled squid and a candle.

“I got her!” Yasopp calls out, lunging, but Emi ducks and keeps running, laughing wildly now, barefoot and fast.

“She’s gone feral!” Lucky Roux howls.

“Shanks!” you bark, spinning around helplessly “Stop laughing and HELP!”

He grins, but there’s warmth in his eyes as he moves quickly, circling the tables “Aye aye, sweetheart.”

You try one side, he takes the other.

“Emi,” he says, crouching low, voice gentle, like he’s speaking to a scared animal “Hey, baby girl. Wanna play a game? It’s called Freeze. Can you freeze?”

She stops. Looks at him. Wobbles on her feet.

You sneak up behind.

“Gotcha!” you grab her mid-spin, lifting her up like a sack of potatoes.

She laughs and squeals, legs kicking.

“She’s a slippery one.” you mutter, holding her close, out of breath.

“I like her spirit,” Shanks says, grinning as he brushes a strand of hair from your face “She reminds me of you.”

You squint at him “You’re not funny.”

The crew starts clapping. Yasopp whistles. Roux raises his mug “Now that’s a team, huh? Look at them. Mom and Dad of the year.”

“Oh, please—” you start, but Shanks just reaches for Emi’s little hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Teamwork, right?” he says softly to her.

She nods. Then sneezes again. Right into his chest.

You burst out laughing this time and say “That’s karma.”

He wipes it off with a napkin like it’s nothing.

You sit back down together, Emi now curled in your lap again, finally tired. Shanks stays close. Not just beside you but with you. Helping. Watching. Smiling softly when Emi dozes off. But he’s still quiet. More quiet than usual.

Your eyes keep drifting to him. The way he’s looking at the girl. The little frown he doesn’t even know he has. The way his hand rests on her back like he’s done it a hundred times before.

He used to be like this with Uta. And Luffy, too. Soft. Present. Gentle.

You haven’t seen that part of him in a long time. You missed it.

“You okay?” you ask under your breath, while the crew starts arguing over dessert.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then finally, “Yeah.”

You stare at him a little longer “Are you lying to me?”

He smiles, but it’s not the usual cocky grin. It’s smaller. Tired.

“I’m not sure what I’m feeling,” he admits “Just… thinking, I guess.”

You squeeze his hand “About what?”

He shrugs, looking down at Emi “About a lot of things.”

And now you are quiet, because something in your chest shifts. Soft. Strange. Familiar.

Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like you’ve already given him something he thought he’d never have again. Or maybe it’s the way it suddenly feels… real.

You. Him. And this small, chaotic moment that makes everything else disappear.

The sun starts to dip, painting the sky in gold and peach.

You’re still at the tavern, Emi snoring softly on your shoulder, her little fingers tangled in your hair. Shanks sits beside you, quiet. His arm rests behind you, not touching, just there.

And then she returns. The woman bursts through the crowd, her apron flying, face flushed with panic. The moment she sees you, she stops, hands over her heart like she might collapse.

“Oh my god—thank you. Thank you so much,” she breathes, almost crying as she rushes to you “I’m so sorry I took so long. I owe you my life.”

You wave a hand gently “It’s okay. Really. She was good. A little fast—like, sprint-across-the-rooftops fast—but… I had fun.”

Emi stirs and opens her eyes.

“Hi, baby.” the mother coos, arms outstretched. The little girl shifts toward her sleepily, and you pass her over with care. For a second, Emi resists, her hand still reaching for your shirt.

Your heart squeezes a little.

“Thank you again,” the woman says, eyes filled with real gratitude “If you’re ever on this island again, please come find us. I mean it.”

You smile, brushing some crumbs off your lap “Of course. Be safe.”

You watch them go, mother holding daughter close, disappearing into the market crowd. And then it’s just… quiet. Too quiet.

The crew starts packing up, joking softly, but there’s a change in the air. A stillness you don’t like. You look at Shanks.

He’s already looking at you.

Not grinning. Not teasing.

Just watching you with that faraway softness in his eyes, like you’re a slow dream he doesn’t want to wake up from. Like maybe, for a second, he saw something more than just this moment.

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his.

He squeezes back but doesn’t say anything.

The walk to the ship is slow. The crew’s laughing again, arguing about who drank the most, but it’s like the volume’s been turned down. You and Shanks trail behind.

Still no words. Not one.

That night, the sea’s calm. The stars are out. You’re both in your cabin, door closed, boots off.

You lie on your shared bed, watching him stand at the window, shirt half unbuttoned, red hair catching the moonlight, and you’ve had enough. You sit up.

“Alright, Red,” you say, crossing your arms “What’s going on in that dumb, beautiful head of yours?”

He looks over his shoulder, startled “What?”

“You’ve been quiet ever since Emi left. You’ve said maybe ten words total. And I know you. That means you’re thinking. Hard.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Nope.” You crawl across the bed toward him, poke his side “Try again.”

He sighs “It’s… complicated.”

“So is your face, and I still look at it every day. Try me.”

That gets a small laugh out of him.

You press your forehead to his back “You don’t have to hold things in with me, Shanks. Not the serious stuff. Not the scary stuff. Especially not the stuff that makes your eyes look like that.”

He turns slowly, leaning against the window. You slide your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest. He wraps his arms around you too, finally. Breathing in.

“Seeing you with her,” he says softly “With Emi.”

You wait.

“I kept thinking about Uta. About Luffy. About how fast it all went. How I blinked and they weren’t mine to hold anymore.”

You don’t speak. Just hold him tighter.

“And then… I saw you. Just being there. Caring for this tiny stranger like it was nothing. Laughing with her. Holding her. And something in me just… ached.”

You tilt your head up “Ached how?”

He looks down at you, eyes serious now “Like I wanted that with you. And I didn’t even know how much until I saw it.”

The words settle deep inside you.

“You’d be a good father.” you whisper.

“You’d be the best mother.” he says back instantly.

Silence again, but this time it’s full. Of possibilities. Of truths unsaid until now.

“I didn’t say anything,” Shanks adds, brushing a hand through your hair, “because I don’t want you to think I expect that from you. Or that I’m pushing it. I just… couldn’t stop seeing it.”

You lean in and kiss him slow. No rush. No pressure. Just soft and sure.

When you pull away, your voice is warm and quiet “Then keep seeing it. I don’t mind.”

You kiss him. Long, soft, deep.

The kind of kiss that says more than either of you can find the words for. His hands settle on your waist, grounding you, holding you like you might drift away if he lets go. And when you finally break apart, you stay close. Forehead to forehead. Breathing the same air.

Now it’s your turn. You exhale shakily “I always saw you with Uta. And Luffy. The way you held them, talked to them, made them laugh… the way they looked at you.”

Shanks closes his eyes, lips pressed together.

“I used to watch from the deck,” you continue softly, “and I’d think… that. I want that with him. Our own little chaos. Our own quiet moments. Our own family.”

His grip on you tightens just a little. His thumb strokes your hip, slowly.

“I never said anything,” you admit, voice quieter now “Because I thought… maybe you already had your turn. Maybe being a dad again wasn’t something you wanted. Like, maybe Uta and even Luffy were your ‘once in a lifetime’. And I didn’t want to be selfish.”

Shanks pulls back just enough to look at you fully, eyes wide, voice rough “Selfish? Y/N… You have no idea how wrong you are.”

You blink.

He cups your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek “If anything, I was scared you didn’t want that. I never wanted to put that weight on you. My name. My crew. My life.”

You both laugh a little, soft and breathless. And then he says it “I’d love to see a little you run around the ship.”

Your heart does a full spin in your chest. You both collapse back onto the bed, side by side, hands tangled together, staring at the ceiling like it holds the future in its stars.

“I think she’d be loud.” you say, smiling to yourself.

“She?” Shanks grins “You’re already picking sides?”

“I just know. She’d talk back to Benn by the time she could crawl.”

“She’d steal Yasopp’s sake and blame it on Lucky Roux.”

“She’d steal your cape and wear it like a dress.”

“She’d make the whole crew bow to her by age four.”

You laugh. He laughs too. Your fingers tighten around his.

“She’d be soft like you,” he adds suddenly, voice lower now “Kind. But dangerous.”

You glance over at him “She’d be brave like you. Wild, loyal, always smiling.”

He sighs, almost dreamily “I can already hear her little feet running on the deck.”

“And your big voice yelling ‘don’t climb the cannon!’”

You both break into giggles and then silence again, but this time, it’s wrapped in warmth, in hope.

Shanks turns his head to look at you. You’re already looking at him.

“I mean…” he says slowly, raising one eyebrow, “we could start working on that little Y/N… like… right now.”

You gasp “Shanks!”

He smirks wickedly “What? I’m just saying. We’re both here. The ship’s quiet. The moon looks nice. You’re cute. I’m cute. It’s called destiny.”

You snort “You’re impossible—ah!”

He attacks, fingers darting to your sides, tickling, making you laugh and squirm under him.

“Shanks! Stop!”

“Never!” he grins, pinning you lightly with his weight “You’re stuck now. You told me your secrets. I told you mine. That makes us legally married in pirate law.”

You laugh until your cheeks hurt. You wiggle, but he’s strong, gentle, always careful. And then you stop moving. So does he.

Your eyes meet again. Closer now. Breath mingling.

That softness returns. Like a wave pulling you under, not scary. Just deep. Full of something quiet and forever.

You reach up and brush his hair behind his ear.

He leans into your touch.

“Hey,” you whisper “I love you.”

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your palm “And I love you more than I thought I even could.”

His mouth finds yours again, slower this time. No rush.

The kind of kiss that makes the world outside the cabin disappear and maybe, tonight is the beginning of something new.

── .✦ Ace:

The sun is warm, the breeze is salty, and Ace is doing what he always does when he’s not fighting or eating: walking too close to you with that lazy grin on his face.

“You sure you don’t wanna race?” he asks “You lose, you buy lunch.”

You raise an eyebrow “You’ll cheat with your fire.”

“Not true.” He places a hand on his chest, all dramatic “I only cheat if I’m losing.”

You snort “So always.”

He gasps “Betrayal.”

The two of you walk down the main road of a small island town. It’s quiet, peaceful, one of those places that doesn’t care much for bounties or pirate crews. People nod, wave, smile. Ace stretches, yawns, and puts his arm lazily around your shoulder.

“Maybe we should stay here a few days,” he says “Nice change from all the running.”

Before you can answer, a small voice says “Is that Fire Fist Ace?!”

You both turn. Two kids stand by a fruit stall, one boy, maybe six, and an older girl, probably nine. The boy’s eyes are wide. The girl looks like she’s not impressed yet.

Ace grins “Yeah, that’s me.”

The boy lights up “No way! My dad told me you can burn down a whole ship in one punch!”

Ace shrugs, clearly proud “Depends on the ship.”

The girl, however, is staring at you.

Her eyes narrow “You’re her, aren’t you?”

You blink “…Her?”

She steps closer, pointing at your waist “You’re the swordwoman who beat that Navy officer in Loguetown. The one who fights with two blades and never loses.”

You look down at her, surprised. She’s serious. Ace whistles.

“Wow,” he says “I didn’t know I was walking around with a legend.”

You nudge him “Shut up.”

The girl keeps going “They say you cut a cannonball in half.”

You sigh “It was already cracked.”

Still, her eyes sparkle. The boy joins in, bouncing excitedly.

“She’s so cool! Are you really pirates?!”

“Guilty,” Ace says, holding up his hands “But friendly pirates.”

“You don’t look friendly...” the girl says.

Ace grins “Good. That’s the point.”

Then the boy tugs at your sleeve “Can I see your sword?”

You crouch to his level “They’re sharp. Not safe for kids.”

He frowns “I won’t touch it. Promise!”

You glance at Ace, who’s watching you closely, smiling like he’s waiting for something. You sigh and slowly pull one of your swords just a little from the sheath, just enough to show the edge. Both kids gasp like it’s treasure.

“Can you teach us how to fight?” the girl asks suddenly.

You blink “You’re nine.”

“So? You were probably younger when you started.”

Ace chuckles “She was.”

You give him a side-eye “Stop helping.”

The little girl folds her arms “You could just show us something. Like a move. Just one.”

You sigh again but you’re smiling now “You’re very stubborn.”

She shrugs “You have to be, if you wanna be strong.”

Ace leans against a wooden post, arms crossed, amused “Sounds familiar.”

You glance at him “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I mean… yeah.” He grins “It’s the first time someone’s asking you for autographs instead of me. I’m letting it sink in.”

The boy tugs your coat again “Please? One move?”

You finally stand, looking at the open space near the dock “Fine. But just one. Then you leave us alone and go home, got it?”

The kids cheer and run to the clearing.

Ace follows, whistling “You’re gonna start a sword school at this rate.”

You roll your shoulders, then pull your blade halfway out, just enough to flash the steel. You drop into a stance, slow and firm. The kids go quiet. Then, with a sharp breath, you move. One swift, elegant slash through the air, so fast the wind shifts. The tip of your sword stops just above the ground, and your coat flutters around you.

The boy’s mouth hangs open. The girl’s eyes are huge.

Ace whistles “Show-off.”

You sheathe the sword in one clean motion.

The girl points “That was awesome! Can you do it again?”

“No,” you say, but you’re laughing now.

The boy runs over and hugs your leg suddenly “You’re my favorite pirate now!”

You blink, surprised. You pat his head awkwardly “Uh. Thanks?”

Ace watches you, your hand gently resting on the boy’s head, your stance still grounded, strong but soft. You’re not trying to impress anyone. You just exist like this. Capable. Calm. Kind. Something shifts in his chest.

You look up at him “What?”

He shrugs “Nothing. Just… didn’t know you were this good with kids.”

“I’m not,” you say “They’re just clingy.”

The girl now grabs your wrist “Can I hold your sword?”

“No.”

“Can I touch it?”

“No.”

“Can you teach me how to fight like that?”

“No—”

Ace walks over, laughing “C’mon, sweetheart. Be nice.”

You glare at him “You help, then.”

He lifts his hands “Nope. I’m just the fire guy. You’re the star today.”

The boy turns to Ace “Do you two live together?”

You and Ace exchange a look.

He grins “Something like that.”

The girl squints “Are you married?”

You cough “No.”

“Are you gonna be?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Ace just laughs and says, “Wanna help me convince her?”

“YES!” the kids shout in unison.

You groan and walk away “I regret everything.”

Ace follows, hands in his pockets, that lazy smile still on his face, but his eyes stay soft. He watches you gently shoo the kids away, then thank the fruit vendor with a quiet bow. And in that moment, he knows. Clear as day.

“She’s not just strong. She’s not just mine. She’d be the best damn mom the world’s ever seen.”

He doesn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But he’s thinking it. Hard.

You and Ace are sitting under a tree near the edge of the village, sharing a bag of sliced fruit.

“You think they’re gone?” you ask, biting into a juicy piece.

Ace shrugs “Maybe. Or maybe they’re forming a fan club.”

You nudge his leg with your boot “I don’t need a fan club.”

He gives you a lazy grin “No, but you deserve one.”

You roll your eyes, but your ears go a little pink.

Then, a small voice calls from down the road “WE’RE BACK!!”

You groan “No.”

Ace grins “Yes.”

The two kids come running, the boy nearly trips over his own feet and stop in front of you, proudly holding up folded paper sheets.

“Look!!” the girl says, unfolding one “We drew you!”

You blink “…You what?”

They hand you the papers. The drawings are messy, full of wild colors, but so full of heart. One is of you holding two swords, a big smile on your face. Another shows you and Ace together, tiny figures with stars around you. A third shows you with a little kid, sword in hand, standing tall.

You pause at that one. Ace leans over your shoulder to peek. His voice is softer now “Is that supposed to be your kid?”

The girl nods proudly “Yup! We made a story about you! You’re a pirate mom who protects her ship and teaches her kid how to be strong.”

You stare at the page, silent. The boy holds out a few crayons “You can draw too, if you want!”

Before you can say no, he’s already sitting down, opening another paper. The girl joins him. They look up at you, smiling.

“C’mon,” she says “We wanna make a whole crew!”

You glance at Ace. He shrugs, trying to act casual “Up to you.”

You sigh and sit down cross-legged in the grass “Alright. But I’m drawing the captain.”

“That’s YOU!” the boy says.

You raise an eyebrow “I meant me.”

They laugh.

You start sketching. Nothing fancy just simple shapes. You draw yourself with a pirate hat, a tiny sword tucked in your belt. The kids start adding characters around you: themselves, animals, someone with a frying pan who’s probably Ace.

You’re focused, smiling to yourself as you add waves and stars and a sun.

Ace just watches you from where he stands, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. There’s a heat in his chest now that has nothing to do with his powers. It burns deeper. It’s watching your hand gently guide the boy’s when he can’t get the lines straight. It’s hearing you ask, “Want me to draw your pirate flag too?” in that soft, patient voice.

It’s the way you look down at the page like you’re already imagining a future.

“This shouldn’t make me want her more,” he thinks, frustrated “But it does. She’s drawing little pirate stories with them on the grass. She’d be the kind of mom who makes the world feel safe.”

He swallows hard and looks away for a second, like it’ll calm him down... It doesn’t.

You finish your little drawing with a final scribble of wind in the sails.

“There,” you say, holding it up “Captain, crew, and treasure.”

The boy claps “It’s perfect!”

The girl leans over to look “Yours is way cooler than mine.”

“Nah,” you say, nudging her arm “You’ve got better colors.”

They beam like you just handed them gold.

Ace is still standing nearby, arms crossed, pretending to be relaxed, but his jaw is tight.

You glance up at him “You okay?”

“Me? Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means it to. He clears his throat “Just… warm.”

The boy tugs at your sleeve again.

“Hey,” he says, eyes wide with curiosity “Do you have kids?”

You blink. Ace freezes.

The girl adds quickly, “You’d be a really cool mom.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the wind and the scratching of a crayon. You sit back slowly and shake your head “No. I don’t.”

The boy frowns “Why not?”

You laugh softly “Because I’m still busy being a pirate.”

“But you could be both,” the girl says, very seriously “Like in the drawing.”

You smile at that “Maybe someday.”

Your voice is calm. Light. Like you’re just answering any question. But Ace… Ace is not calm. He watches your face as you say those words “Maybe someday” and his heart lurches. Because now it’s real. Not just a fantasy in his head. Not just a warm thought. You’ve imagined it too now.

He doesn’t say anything. He just walks over slowly and sits down behind you, arms resting over your shoulders as you lean back against his chest.

“You’d be amazing at it.” he murmurs, low so the kids can’t hear.

You glance up “At what?”

He looks down at you, eyes soft and a little wild at the edges, like something’s breaking open inside him “At being a mom. I mean it.”

You pause. Then, quietly, you ask, “You think about that?”

He nods “More than I expected to. More than I ever thought I would.”

The kids are still doodling, totally unaware. You say nothing, but your hand reaches up and rests gently over his. That’s all he needs.

The kids eventually stand up, arms full of drawings and unfinished paper pirate maps.

“We’re gonna go show these to our grandpa!” the girl says.

The boy nods “Thanks for drawing with us!”

You wave, still sitting in the grass “Stay out of trouble.”

The boy grins “Bye, pirate mom!”

You blink “I’m not—”

But they’re already gone.

Ace snorts behind you “Pirate mom, huh?”

You roll your eyes and lean back into him again “Don’t start.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder “Too late. You’ve got the role down already. You give good advice, threaten people just enough, and draw cool flags. What more could a kid want?”

You hum “A dad who doesn’t set the house on fire?”

He grins “I’d try to keep it contained.”

You laugh, light and warm “You’d accidentally roast our laundry.”

“Okay, yeah, but I’d teach them how to blow stuff up responsibly.”

You fake-think “Hmm. Dangerous. But useful.”

He smiles, but then falls quiet. You feel the shift instantly. His arms wrap tighter around your middle.

“You were really sweet with them.” he says softly.

You shrug “They were cute.”

“You were cuter.”

You snort “Gross.”

“No, seriously,” he murmurs “I was watching you and thinking… like, really thinking—”

He breaks off, then tries again “That I wanna see you like that again. With… our own.”

You smirk “You mean with a mini version of me bossing you around?”

He groans “Oh god. A tiny you would be terrifying.”

“Admit it. You’d love it.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I would,” he says, suddenly serious “I really would.”

You look up at him. He’s already looking down at you, eyes soft, mouth slightly parted, like he’s realizing it all over again.

You tilt your head, grinning “You’re so obvious, Ace.”

“Am not.”

“You were practically glowing while I helped that kid draw a sword.”

“I was not glowing!”

“You sighed like five times.”

“I didn’t—”

“You had your sappy ‘I’m in love’ face on.”

“I always have my sappy in love face on.”

You laugh, twisting in his arms to face him fully “True.”

He leans in, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m serious though,” he murmurs “Someday. I’d want that. With you.”

Your voice softens “Yeah. Me too.”

You kiss him slow, sure, and just a little teasing, then pull back with a grin “But if the kid turns out chaotic like you, I’m blaming your genes.”

He laughs against your mouth “Deal. But if they’re scary with a sword by age seven, that’s all you.”

You smirk “We’ll make a terrifying little pirate together.”

He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions. 

You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself. 

“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.” 

Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self. 

“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?” 

His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded. 

“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.” 

Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done. 

The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked. 

“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.” 

“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”

You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible. 

The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun. 

“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.” 

Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice. 

“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.” 

You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look. 

“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have. 

You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from. 

“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly. 

Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave. 

“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.” 

That’s when you felt your breathing stop. 

The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them. 

He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them. 

You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side. 

You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth. 

When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face. 

“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.

The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back. 

You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray. 

Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.

“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”

The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look. 

“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds. 

Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently. 

“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”

You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face. 

“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.” 

“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”

You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it. 

You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue. 

“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.” 

Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening. 

That was your sophomore year. 

Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months. 

Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night. 

It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better. 

Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.

Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited. 

But you’re fine keeping it down. 

You were fine until recently.

—

“I’m debating switching majors.” 

Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down. 

“To what?” 

She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating. 

“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?” 

“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot. 

“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification. 

“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.” 

Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance. 

“His side?” 

Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless. 

You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks. 

Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it. 

Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant. 

But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him. 

At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that. 

When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him. 

So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine. 

What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity. 

Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was. 

Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.

And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party. 

So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend. 

“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum. 

You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance. 

Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm. 

You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing. 

“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions. 

You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing. 

Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave. 

“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop. 

“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.” 

You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you. 

“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen. 

You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face. 

“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.” 

You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track. 

Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses. 

Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else. 

They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue. 

He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was. 

Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again. 

Smudges. 

You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him. 

After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo. 

He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return. 

Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.

“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject. 

“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew. 

“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?” 

You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name. 

“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?” 

Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name. 

“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."

Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here. 

Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.  

“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.” 

Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue. 

Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.

“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.

But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.

Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this. 

Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up. 

You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.

“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone. 

Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in. 

There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance. 

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.” 

Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator. 

“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor. 

You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you. 

“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”

Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment. 

“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”

You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position. 

“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect. 

“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.

“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?” 

There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes. 

“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!” 

Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.

“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly. 

“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it. 

You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for. 

The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work. 

Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person. 

It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting. 

“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.” 

You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard. 

Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.

When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.

He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it. 

“What’re you reading?” 

Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes. 

“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.” 

Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.

“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”

His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie. 

“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.” 

“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.” 

You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back. 

“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs. 

“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?” 

Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor. 

“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.” 

His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy. 

“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”

You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.

“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam. 

They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal. 

Like you have for the past two years.

—

The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate. 

You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for. 

For the most part.

Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days. 

The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.   

Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table. 

“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink. 

You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes. 

“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.” 

She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.  

“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding. 

“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement. 

“You don’t like Shakespeare?”

Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question. 

Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room. 

“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.” 

Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you. 

“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.” 

Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend. 

“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised. 

Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces. 

“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work. 

You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it. 

“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts. 

Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable. 

“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment. 

“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.” 

You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion. 

“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them. 

“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely. 

“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it. 

You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her. 

Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection. 

“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.” 

“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.” 

“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.” 

He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers. 

“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”

“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”

Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement. 

Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention. 

You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on. 

The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders. 

“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.” 

You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths. 

“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.

He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.

“Water?” 

Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth. 

“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”

You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles. 

“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out. 

Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist. 

You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face. 

Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison. 

The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck. 

Cute in a schoolish way, you think.

“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…” 

Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words. 

“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-” 

He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth. 

Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento. 

Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal. 

Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior. 

One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting. 

Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.

“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior. 

“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”

His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words. 

Satoru looks at you, taking another sip. 

“What?” 

You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words. 

“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”

His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.

But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest. 

You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were. 

The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of. 

Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).

But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.

And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.

“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.” 

Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.

“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.

Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.

“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”

You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.

Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed. 

That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand. 

“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-” 

Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press. 

“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!” 

Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly. 

“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”

You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.

You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.

“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself. 

“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.” 

Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst. 

“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile. 

He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to. 

“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries. 

“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!” 

Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care. 

“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left. 

You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room. 

“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters. 

“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself. 

“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!” 

You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own. 

“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”

Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.

You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason. 

“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.” 

That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement. 

“Why’d you move?” 

Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind. 

“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.

The rest of the night continued as it usually does. 

If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal. 

—

Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties. 

It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes. 

Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear. 

It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.

Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long. 

Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once. 

shoko: pick up

shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya

shoko: pls pls pls pick up 

shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back 

shoko: pls 

You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this. 

It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line. 

“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better. 

“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.” 

The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat. 

“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at. 

“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-” 

You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling. 

“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-” 

“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.” 

A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head. 

“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.” 

You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly. 

“You sure?” 

“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.” 

“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-” 

This time, she’s cut off, but not by you. 

A knock sounds over your door. 

You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.” 

She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done. 

“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought. 

“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend, 

But Satoru. 

Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.

Damn you, Shoko Ieiri. 

“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”

His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh. 

“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly. 

“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”

You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away. 

“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”

He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater. 

“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price. 

Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction. 

“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”

Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough. 

This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself, 

Everything was going to be fine. 

—-

The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom. 

“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.” 

The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night. 

It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know. 

But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air. 

“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself. 

“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.” 

He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were. 

“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks! 

“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.” 

Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly. 

“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.” 

You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet. 

Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them. 

Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this. 

Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line. 

Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash. 

Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-

And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile. 

The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience. 

You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone. 

From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason. 

It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most. 

You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way. 

Like he was right now. 

Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start. 

You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention. 

When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut. 

She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote. 

“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” 

One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends. 

“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”

The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent. 

“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.

Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit. 

“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods. 

“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.

“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”

Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting. 

When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark. 

You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding. 

The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other. 

He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage. 

“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand. 

“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably. 

Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat. 

“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.” 

It’s yours.

Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.  

“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.

You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you. 

—

Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was. 

The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts. 

You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it. 

The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused. 

Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second. 

When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch. 

A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains. 

“Funny, huh?” 

Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment. 

“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.” 

You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now. 

People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit. 

“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods. 

You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.

Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours. 

“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words. 

“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity. 

After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays. 

That’s what you did.

And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such. 

But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this. 

And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you. 

“Are you enjoying it?” 

His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.

“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.” 

He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self. 

As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself. 

“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat. 

“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words. 

Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.

You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.

He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.

There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice. 

But, of course, he does. 

He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely. 

“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek. 

You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.

“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-” 

But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab. 

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.” 

He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up. 

“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else. 

You feel tears prickly in your eyes. 

And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back. 

—

When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis. 

There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending. 

Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.

“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly. 

You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.

“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you

“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”

You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.

The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door. 

His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall. 

The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter. 

You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush. 

At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it. 

You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.

Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky. 

You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face. 

“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter. 

“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were. 

Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next. 

You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.

After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man. 

Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner. 

2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.

You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into. 

His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust. 

It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too. 

So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming. 

You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure. 

Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out. 

People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.

This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you. 

Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was. 

To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone. 

You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again. 

Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place. 

The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them. 

When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.

Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.

“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.

“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.

“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?” 

This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift. 

Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.

“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.

A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.

“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.” 

And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes. 

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle. 

“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?” 

You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair. 

“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves. 

“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly. 

He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking. 

Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you. 

“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”

You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is. 

He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly. 

“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off. 

“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.

But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.

“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.

He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look. 

And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.

—

As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm. 

You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away. 

“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.” 

That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed. 

With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase. 

It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.

He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you. 

You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting. 

Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.

You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers. 

It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you. 

You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway. 

Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile. 

He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers. 

“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed. 

“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head. 

“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk. 

You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over. 

“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction. 

“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world. 

“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”

He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up. 

“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?” 

His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.

“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back. 

You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf. 

You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying. 

The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names. 

Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.

The Count of Monte Cristo.

Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention. 

Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer. 

A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.

The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside. 

Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips. 

Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat. 

It’s a polaroid of the two of you.

You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably. 

But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet. 

You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.

Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out. 

You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them. 

“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake. 

In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand. 

His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film. 

“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf. 

“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit. 

“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?” 

You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug. 

“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”

“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?” 

Damn him. 

You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile. 

“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied. 

He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits. 

You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.

“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare. 

“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”

He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything. 

“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest. 

“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.

“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,

 But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken. 

He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it. 

Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly. 

Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply. 

“Were you…Were you going through my things?” 

The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut. 

“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles. 

“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself. 

He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing. 

And then he moves. 

His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.

“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”

Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses. 

…huh?

You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues. 

“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time. 

“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.

“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back. 

“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”

The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.

Not the way you did.

“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”

He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression. 

“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?” 

You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods. 

“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”

Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.

“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”

You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile. 

“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”

“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”

“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.” 

When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of. 

“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”

Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his. 

Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily. 

“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything. 

“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.” 

You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.

“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.” 

Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away. 

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.” 

You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.

“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes. 

“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.” 

You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.

“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”

You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts. 

“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view. 

“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”

And he’s right. 

The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf. 

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.

“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics. 

“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.” 

You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements. 

“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles. 

“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.” 

You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling.  His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation. 

“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”

The question makes you stop.

Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back. 

It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one. 

After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you. 

“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face. 

Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks. 

“What about…what about the others?”

The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building. 

“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side. 

“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him. 

“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.” 

He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest. 

“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”

You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.

“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips. 

“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.” 

You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours. 

He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet. 

You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next. 

His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in. 

“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.” 

You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side. 

“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.

He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.

“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.” 

He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues. 

“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it. 

“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.” 

You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either. 

“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.

“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”

You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.

“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?” 

He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra. 

“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”

Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue. 

“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.” 

He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh. 

“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?” 

You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine. 

“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command. 

Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.

“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;

“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.” 

When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach. 

“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully. 

You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him. 

His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else. 

“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.” 

His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on. 

“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them. 

Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.

His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad. 

“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?” 

You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in. 

When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this. 

“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.

“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.” 

He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.

Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.

Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened. 

You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more. 

When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain. 

“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.” 

Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright. 

“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”

Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows. 

“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains. 

“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”

You let out a breathless laugh. 

Because of course he had. 

“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.” 

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly. 

You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.

“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”

You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.

It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly. 

Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.

You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling. 

Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly. 

“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours. 

You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.

You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.

“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck. 

At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.

“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?” 

He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable. 

“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name. 

You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.

He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.

“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”

Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.

“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?” 

He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek. 

“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.” 

You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.

His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better. 

“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one. 

“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.” 

You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones. 

snowy, you think. that's his name. he looks just like his owner.

you don't talk to phainon often, but he is a pleasant neighbor to have. for one, he's a responsible pet owner — except for today, for some reason — and he always lends you any ingredients you might be missing in your kitchen while cooking.

he's also very attractive, but that's besides the point. he probably has a significant other already. he's too charming not to.

…but is it wrong of you to wish that he was still single and that you had a chance with him?

snowy brings you back to reality with a bark, rubbing his fluffy little head against your sweater. sure, you'd have to clean the fur off of it, but snowy is a sweet little samoyed who seems to like you. it's hard to get mad at him.

"where's your owner, mister snowy?" you ask, giving snowy a silly nickname before carefully standing up and looking around, noticing that a leash and harness is still wrapped around the dog's body. seems like it's a simple case of snowy running off while phainon was walking him.

so, being the responsible neighbor that you are, you pick up the leash from the ground, gently pulling snowy, who is surprisingly very cooperative to the point that you almost can't believe that he would run away from his owner, to the direction you want to go to. from your past observations, phainon and snowy always walk along the same route, so the white-haired man should be around here somewhere.

maybe. hopefully.

"we'll find your owner, okay? don't worry about it." you attempt to comfort the white-colored dog, who honestly looks like he couldn't care less about phainon's current whereabouts.

you keep one hand wrapped around the paper bag that contained your lunch — which probably moved around a lot, judging by the lack of anything spilling out of it — with snowy's leash on the other, keeping an eye out for your dear neighbor.

which didn't take that long. after a good 10 or so minutes of walking and taking a closer look at anyone with white hair that didn't look elderly, snowy seemed to have spotted his owner and dashed towards him.

…and also caused you to topple over and actually spill your food. perhaps you spoke too soon.

for a moment, you think the fall was actually so bad that you died, since the first thing you saw was a very handsome man hovering over you and calling your name in a bit of a frantic panic, but eventually, you came to your senses and realized that, one, you are not dead, and two, your neighbor is the one asking if you're alright.

…dear kephale, he's somehow even more handsome up close. you can't tell if that's a blessing or a curse.

phainon's voice manages to break you out of that dazed state, as well as him gently shaking you back and forth, "[name], are you alright?"

"y—yeah, no, i'm alright…" you barely cough out, looking down and noticing the small red stain on his handkerchief. you can only assume that, since you fell, there would be a tiny bit of blood involved. at least it's not a concussion. "…not the first time that happened today."

your eyes look over at the very person — or, dog? — that's to blame for this, who… actually looks pretty damn cute. and guilty. those puppy dog eyes will work on just about anyone, you conclude.

and then you notice it.

your food bag.

…honestly, should've known that wouldn't have lasted. still disappointing, though.

"i'm really sorry about snowy," phainon starts, giving you a look that's basically identical to how snowy looks right now. you wouldn't even be surprised if snowy had some parts of his DNA at this point. "i should've looked after him more carefully. you hit your head a bit there…" he continues, pointing to a certain spot on your forehead

you put a finger on your forehead, realizing there's already a small bandaid on it. honestly, you're surprised that your neighbor just has these lying around. makes you wonder if this is a regular occurrence, or if he just likes to be prepared.

"i'm expecting some compensation," you start, mainly talking about your order that's now scattered all over the sidewalk. though, really, you don't mean anything crazy, like a billion bucks for damages.

snowy barks, as if trying to catch your attention, as well as phainon's. you've never been a dog whisperer, but you feel like the samoyed might be telling you something.

and, as ridiculous as it sounds, you listen to your gut feeling.

"maybe… by taking me out for lunch?"

the moment the words leave your lips, you already want to shrink into yourself. the only conversations the both of you have shared were greeting each other good morning when you pass by each other before heading to work, asking him if he has any salt or sugar when you run out, and some small talk when you bump into each other at the elevator. you've already mentally prepared yourself for rejection of any kind at this point.

and yet, it somehow works.

"oh. oh, of course! it's only right, isn't it? i'd love to." phainon actually smiles, effortlessly picking you up from the ground and onto your two feet. honestly? if you didn't have a little crush on him before, you definitely have one now. "anywhere you want! it's my treat."

a country bumpkin who decided to stay in the city after graduating with a (supposed) useless degree. a young man who spent his last credits to buy a low-quality mic, together with his second-hand gaming pc and obs webcam, he took his chances at breaking through the intimidating world of streaming.

he begins with sandbox games, long chill streams late at night after he was done working his ass off at his daytime corporate job. there were no viewers, but he can't fault in that when the frontpage of the streaming site are all well-established bigshots. it's difficult to find something new when one is so used to the sense of familiarity that their favorite streamer carries.

phainon tries flash games next, making fun of all the silly, borderline fetish art of beloved animation characters, but all that brought him were bots that got his hopes up, only to be cruelly let down when his chat was filled with nothing but advertisement spam.

well... third time's a charm.

phainon tries horror games. he plays the faces of the genre like resident evil, silent hill, amnesia. etc. to the short, obscure indie horror that he only heard through word of mouth in online forums. paired with his usual schedule of late-night streaming and a newly purchased better-quality mic, he feels like it'll get him somewhere this time.

this proves to be true when he gains his first ever viewer in the middle of him shooting down monster enemies. the loud ping from his chat entirely breaks his focus on the game, head swiveling to face the corner of his monitor where he can view the chatbar.

he reads your username out loud before your message, " "what are you playing right now?" oh! i'm playing resident evil 2! the remake, to be specific."

he grins at his webcam, all coy when he asks, "wanna keep watching? i'll be worth your time, i swear!"

when a handsome man with big, puppy dog eyes asks that of you, it's nearly impossible to say no. so type in the chatbar once more,

"sure, why not :)"

to your surprise, this streamer you found out in the wilderness of your recommended page, jumps up from his chair and fistbumps the air in glee. the suddent action makes you laugh. it makes him laugh too, his cheeks are dusted with pink by the time he sits back down. he clears his throat and resumes the game as if nothing ever happened.

you'll definitely be here tomorrow.

the first couple of months in phainon's streaming career, his only viewer was you. it feels less of a livestream and more of a videochat on discord with your friend with how often he refers to you while playing a game. he's moved on from horror games; now he's trying random ones each day.

before beginning a new game, he'll ask without looking at the chatbar, "you ready?" and then promptly calls your username. when he gets jumpscared or chased, he'll look at the chatbar and asks for you to come help him. during puzzles, he'll give his best puppy look as he fully expects you to solve it for him.

his viewers exceeded one (1) when phainon was one of the first ones to play an indie game that would soon blow up in popularity. he had found the game through the developer's social media account, added it to his steam wishlist, and played it on the day it came out.

the second time he streamed that indie game, he was awed at the whopping 2000 live concurrent viewers on his stream. he thanked everyone that was currently watching before his eyes zoned in at the chatbar, eyes sparkling as he called out your username, "are you still there? a-are you seeing this right now!?"

you laughed, pride blooming in your chest to see the once unknown streamer you've been watching for a while now take his first steps onto the grand stage of stardom. your fingers tingle in excitement as you type in,

"yes!! welcome everyone, phainon is an awesome streamer, i promise ^^"

another viewer typed, "phainon? is that neikos496's real name?"

oops. you forgot it's no longer just you and him in his livestreams anymore. before guilt could form in your guts, phainon laughs and waves his hand around.

"you're right about that, friend." he mentions your username. "they've been a long-time viewer of mine, you see. we're practically online friends now!"

he winks at his camera. "isn't that right?"

username.

there's a pattern to be found in how, as phainon's fame grows, so do his reliance on you. while before, his behavior of constantly paying attention to you was to be expected, seeing as you were his only viewer at that time, it tends to come off as odd now that his number of viewers is increasing day by day. he still retains old traditions by specifically calling out for your username and checking if you were ready before starting the game he was set on playing that day.

not to mention how he always singles out your chats, always making it a priority for him to read first amidst a sea of emote spammers and other people trying to grasp his attention. even the ones who paid for superchats are inherently stuck in second place the moment you send something to the chatbar.

sure. that's fine. loyalty and routine are good traits to have on a person, right? this just proves that despite his rising fame as a streamer, phainon is still the same man you met back then by staying to his roots. but it begins to slowly suffocate you with how much phainon demands from you, becoming bolder and bolder as his channel grows.

one time, you felt like lying back and observing him for the entirety of the stream, so you hadn't felt the need to type in anything to the chatbar. but an hour into his stream, he's still not playing any game.

after taking gulps from his water bottle, his blue eyes focus on his (newly acquired) second monitor, "chat, chat," he calls out, eyes skimming through the strings of text from different people pouring in. he says your username, "are they here yet? in the stream, i mean."

albeit confused, his viewers tell him no, having believed you weren't there yet with the lack of your usual chattiness. he visibly deflates into his gaming chair. "really? aw, well, we can wait for them before i start playing."

his chat bursts into confusion, spamming questions marks and many complaints to just begin the damn game already beginning to pop up. yet phainon remains undeterred, leaning back on his gaming chair with a slight frown on his face, fingers toying with his water bottle cap.

you straighten up, hurriedly typing in an effort to do damage control from the angry mob.

"heyyyy!! i've been here since the beginning TT TT start the game, neikos!"

akin to dangling a dog treat in front of a puppy, phainon excitedly leans in close to his screen and exclaims your username.

"you've been here all this time! why didn't you say anything? i was about to be sad, you know?" he pouts, bottom lip exaggeratedly jutting out. you nervously laugh, already imagining the curses thrown your way from his viewers.

"srry.... was quite drained from work today ^^;;;; so i didn't feel like typing much..."

then you hurriedly add, "but it's ok now!! let's get this party started .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·. "

phainon hesitates for a moment, seemingly wanting to say more. but then he blinks and returns his focus back to the game he was supposed to play.

in a quieter voice, he mutters, "next time, don't leave me waiting like that, okay? i was scared something happened to you..."

that's... (odd) fair. it must have shaken him quite a bit, being used to you so present and vocal in his streams.

so you go ahead and reassure him, "got it (●'◡'●)"

it's passed off as jokes at first; his fanbase online has an ongoing inside joke wherein phainon is dating you in private. it's not an unreasonable conclusion, and it'd make sense to an outsider just peering in from outside, but when phainon mentioned your username in a fanmeet event, the line between jokes and genuine belief is blurred. a shipping culture is born, and the flames are fanned further when a fan posts a screenshot of their profile being followed by phainon before it quickly gets unfollowed.

from a supposed friendship in the eyes of his many viewers, it quickly becomes uncomfortable for you when other fans begin mentioning you in the chatbar, asking for confirmation during phainon's livestreams.

you turn a blind eye to the best that you can. a deranged fan dming you, claiming to have spotted you and phainon out on a date, is quickly blocked. all variations of your shipname with phainon are muted from your timeline, and the accounts related to it are blocked as well.

but even that's not enough. eventually, you decide that it's best to forget this streamer altogether; you stopped attending his livestreams, you moved accounts, you changed usernames, and you wished him the best of luck with his career. not that he needed any if the rumors of him being invited to gamescom held an ounce of truth.

not even a week later, you wake to a dm request on your new account from a burner,

"hello, i didn't mean for the entire situation to quickly turn sour. and i am so sorry for dragging you into this mess when i should've been at the forefront defending you from harassment and hate. i understand that you're not quite ready to reveal our relationship to the public just yet, and i fully respect your decision.

my only wish is for you to go back to watching my streams, just like old times? i really miss you, and i find myself having difficulty playing when you're not there to cheer me on. my personal cheerleader, in a way :) they don't have to know it's you, i know you changed your username, after all. we can keep it secret. i can ignore your messages (but just know i read them and keep them close to my heart), i'll pretend that i'm not paying attention to you, anything.

i just miss you so much. come back to me soon. please, (y/n)?

i love you.

yours,

phainon."

... that's not your username he's typing. it's your real name that you never revealed to anyone online - not to him.

and what does phainon mean by keeping it private? you're not even dating - not once have you even met up with him in real life.

“Come on, honey, we’re going to be late,” Conrad opens the back door of his Range Rover, to where his daughter Maeve was already unbuckling herself from her seat and clambering down, “Look at you! You don’t even need me anymore!”

He scoops her up into his arms, resting her on his hip as he grabs for her backpack too - a bright blue one with sea creatures scattered across it in different shades.

“Are you excited for your first day?” He asks her, slamming the car door behind him and locking the car.

He carries her over to the sidewalk and sets her down.

“Am I going to make new friends?” She asks him, wide green eyes gazing up at him with a slight worry in them.

“Of course you are!” He beams, squeezing her hand in his to reassure her, “You’re going to meet new people, play with a bunch of cool toys, and you get to meet your new teacher.”

“What if they are mean?” She pouts, her steps faltering a little as they near the gate to her kindergarten.

“Hey, hey,” He stops both of them, crouching down in front of her, “You’ve got nothing to be worried about, okay? You’re going to have the best time, I promise. And, if anyone’s not kind to you, what do you do?”

“I tell my teacher and I tell Daddy,” She sniffs, her lips still downturned in their concern.

“Exactly,” Conrad smiles softly, smoothing his hand over the two braids he’d managed to put into her hair - something he’d taught himself from a Youtube tutorial and a lot of practice, “Are you ready?”

She nods and he kisses the tip of her nose quickly, revelling in the sound of her giggle that follows. He opens the gate and they walk the rest of the way to the building, the door opening before they have a chance to do it.

“Hey there!” The woman at the door beams brightly, and the entire space between them seems to warm in her presence, “You must be Maeve Fisher, is that right?”

Maeve nods bashfully.

“Well, I’m your new teacher,” You explain, crouching down to Maeve’s height, “And, Maeve, I am very excited to have you in my class. Are you excited for your first day?”

Maeve hugs into her father’s leg a little more, her nerves creeping back again.

“We’re a little nervous, aren’t we Maeve?” Conrad runs a hand over her hair, looking over to the teacher.

You stand back up, extending her hand to him, “You must be Maeve’s father?”

“Yeah, Conrad,” He shakes her hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” You smile, returning your own name, “And, don’t worry, it’s normal for them to be nervous on their first day. It’s a big change, and a lot of big feelings. But I promise I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she settles in well.”

Conrad smiles, the worry in his chest easing with how reassuring the woman managed to be. She must’ve been around his age. Beautiful, too. The kind of beauty he could tell extended far past her appearance too - like her smile was a reflection of the brightness in her heart. In that moment, he was sure more than ever that Maeve would be in safe hands.

“And you’ll send updates? They told me something about an app so I downloaded it and-“ Conrad pauses, “And I sound just as nervous as she is.”

You chuckle, “Yes, I aim to send at least one update during the day for each child but if there is anything you’re not sure about you can text, you can call. I know how scary it must feel to be leaving her so, believe me, you’re also more than allowed to be nervous.”

He sighs, visibly relaxing, “I should be getting to work.”

“Maeve, is that okay? Are you okay if you come with me so we can let your Daddy get to work?” You crouch down in front of her again.

“My Daddy’s a doctor,” Maeve mumbles bashfully, stepping a little out from beside his leg.

“A doctor?” You raise your brows, an expression of excitement on your face to encourage her, “That’s a very cool job!”

Conrad looks down at you, smiling gently.

“Well, I’m sure he’s got lots of people to go and help. So do you want to come inside with me and meet the other children?” You extend a hand to her, “And then you’ll see your Daddy later today?”

She nods, letting go of her father’s hand to hold yours instead.

“Here’s her bag,” Conrad says as you stand back up, “There’s spare clothes in there, her jacket, a rainsuit, her lunchbox… pretty much anything I could think she might need.”

“Well, thank you for coming prepared, Dr Fisher,” You chuckle, “Cool bag, Maeve! I love dolphins too.”

She smiles a little, the furrow between her brows disappearing as she relaxed.

And, just like that, you both turn around and Maeve starts chatting away to you about how she liked sharks and jellyfish. You reply with enthusiasm to every word she spoke, smiling brightly. And, just before you turn the corner, Maeve looks back and waves wildly at her father. Conrad is sure he feels his heart shatter a little. There she was, walking into her first day of kindergarten. The first day of her entire life where he wouldn’t be there to see it all. He’d spent all night worrying about it. But it had all happened so quickly. And seeing the way you’d taken her under your wing, made her feel so welcome, he was certain that was one less thing he needed to worry about.

As he got back into his car, he found his thoughts momentarily drifting away from his daughter. And instead to the woman who’d held her hand. Those eyes, that smile. The heart that wrapped it all together.

———

The day flies by and Conrad finds himself leaving work earlier than planned so that he can get the car parked in plenty of time to pick Maeve up. There are already a flooding of parents waiting around the door, couples stood together anxiously waiting for their kids to come outside. Conrad stands awkwardly by himself, hands stuffed into his pockets, waiting at the back behind the rest of the group.

One by one, kids start to run out with another teacher in tow, making sure that each one got to their parents. As more families got reunited, Conrad found himself feeling increasingly anxious to be brought back to his daughter. And then, as more and more families start to disappear to return home, you round the corner with Maeve’s hand held in yours.

As soon as she sees him she grins widely, letting go of your hand to run outside to her father. He crouches down instantly, letting her little arms engulf him in a big hug. He feels his heart settle, as if a piece of himself had been returned to him.

“Hey, darling,” He smiles, “How was your day?”

“I got to play shops!”

“You did?” He beams, pulling away from her to look at her bright eyes, “Was it fun?”

She nods energetically, “And we read books and Miss Teacher is the best at reading books.”

He narrows his eyes at her, looking over to where you stood just a step behind, “She always says I’m bad at doing the voices.”

“Ah,” You laugh, “It comes with a lot of practise. And a willingness to completely embarrass yourself.”

He laughs, scooping Maeve up into his arms to settle her onto his hip like a piece of the puzzle he’d been missing all day, “She got on okay then?”

“It’s already a pleasure to have her in my class, Dr Fisher, Maeve was wonderful all day,” You smile sweetly, “She shared with other children, she helped me to tidy up the toys, she’s incredibly smart for her age.”

He feels his heart swell, a pride for his daughter he was sure would only continue to grow, “That’s really great to hear.”

“And we’re ready to do it all again tomorrow, isn’t that right Maeve?” You smile to the little girl, her eyes like a reflection of her father’s.

She nods excitedly, “Yes Miss Teacher!”

“Here’s her bag,” You hand him over the backpack, “Oh, and just one more thing Dr Fisher, just for our records - will it just be yourself picking up Maeve? Just so that the school know who to expect.”

He settles Maeve down onto the floor and she busies herself by trying to fix the large backpack onto her back, “Um, yeah. It’s just me. Maeve’s Mom isn’t…” He looks down as if making sure she wasn’t focused on him, “Well she’s not in the picture.”

You nod, “No problem at all. And, from what I can see, you seem to be doing a more than good job with her by yourself, Dr Fisher.”

“Thank you,” He inhales, “We get by.”

“Well, then I’ll see you both in the morning,” You smile, waving to Maeve.

“Yeah, yeah, bright and early,” Conrad squeezes his daughter’s hand, turning around to start walking away.

He stops in his tracks then, pausing momentarily to look back at you.

“And, please, call me Conrad.”

———

Over the next weeks, Conrad and Maeve both settle into their routine. He drops her off on time every morning, always with the same backpack just as full as the day before. She comes with more and more enthusiasm every day, excited to see you, to see her friends, to get back to a new day of kindergarten. He feels his heart swell at the sight every day, and break a little to accept that his daughter was becoming increasingly okay with being away from him. He arrives on time to pick her up every day until one single day, in December. Work had ran late, traffic hadn’t been on his side, and by the time he’d shown up, every other family had already left.

He’d hurried to the door, the lights still on. He stepped into the corridor, passed the coat hooks now empty from all the children that had already been picked up, apart from one hook still holding a blue backpack with sea creatures all over it.

“Look at that!”

He heard your voice before he saw you, warm, welcoming, relieving.

“Your Daddy’s going to love it!”

“Will he come back soon?” Maeve responded and Conrad felt his heart break a little at the sound of the worry in her voice.

Then, you look up from where you were sat at the desk with Maeve. You smile warmly at him, your shoulders relaxing.

“Well, he’s already here!” You smile and Maeve turns around excitedly.

“Daddy!”

She jumps down from her seat, running over to him faster than her legs can keep up with, bundling herself into his arms.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, honey,” He says softly, holding a hand to the back of her head, “I’m so sorry.”

She doesn’t speak, burying her head into his neck like he’d been missing for a short eternity.

“I am really sorry,” He sighs to you, standing up in his spot, “I tried to get out of work earlier but one of the other doctor’s wasn’t in and then I got stuck in traffic on the way home and then-“

You shake your head, “Conrad, don’t worry. Everyone’s been there.”

“I just-“ He sighs deeply again, “I feel awful.”

He sets Maeve down to the floor and she runs off to go and play with the toys you’d left out for her, picking up where you’d left off. She grabs a teddy bear and places a fake stethoscope to its chest. Conrad’s eyes follow her momentarily before they turn back to you.

“I promised I’d never let work come before her. And then today I just lost track of time and-“ He drags a hand over his face, “I felt sick driving over here.”

“Conrad,” You reach out to touch his arm, “Don’t beat yourself up, honestly.”

You notice then, the contact you’d made, and you pull your hand away bashfully.

“Sorry,” You smile shyly.

Conrad smiles back, taking a deep breath as if he’d visibly relaxed, “Thank you for staying with her.”

You shake your head, “Anytime, honestly.”

He seems to calm then, returning to himself.

“Actually, whilst we were waiting, Maeve made a little something for you,” You explain, taking a piece of pink paper from the table, “She told me this is your house, and this is you and her.”

He holds the artwork in his hands, smiling warmly at her attempt of drawing the two of them. She’d drawn him with a teddy bear in his hand - what she thought he used to make everyone feel better at the hospital. And she’d drawn a teddy bear in her own hand too, matching the one in his.

“Maeve told me when she grows up she wants to be just like her Daddy,” You beam, “She told me it didn’t matter that you were late today because you were saving lives.”

He chuckles gently, “Yeah, yeah, she has a habit of telling people that’s what I do.”

You laugh, “Well, I believe her.”

He looks up at you, his eyes softened with a brim of tears, “Seriously, thank you so much. Maeve tells me everyday how much she loves ‘Miss Teacher’.”

You grin, “Well, I’m glad. But you don’t need to thank me, Maeve’s the kind of kid that makes this job the easiest job in the world.”

He looks over to his daughter, in the middle of telling the teddy bear that he would feel better in the morning, “Maeve, darling, let’s get going. We need to leave Miss Teacher to actually get home at some point tonight.”

She stands up and runs over to you both, reaching for his hand instantly.

“I’ll walk out with you,” You mention, grabbing your bag and your coat.

Conrad waits for you at the door to the classroom as the three of you then walk out to the playground, empty as the dark started to settle over the school. You lock the door behind you, walking out with them towards where Conrad parked his car.

“Is your car nearby?” He stops to ask you.

“Oh, well, normally,” You drag a hand through your hair, “But I had to drop it at the garage earlier today so I’d planned to get a lift with another teacher. But the garage is closed now… and I’ve just realised my house keys are in that car,” You grimace, looking down as if embarrassed by your own mistakes.

“Well no I-“ Conrad stops himself, “I mean, I could drive you somewhere if you want.”

“Oh no I couldn’t ask you to do that,” You shake your head.

“You’re not asking,” He reminds you, “I offered.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

“Maeve?” Conrad scoops her back into his arms, “Do you want to go on a little adventure to drop Miss Teacher home?”

She nods eagerly, “Are you coming in my Daddy’s car?”

“If that’s okay with you,” You smile gently, “That would be very kind of you.”

“You can come with us,” She smiles, letting Conrad carry her around to her side of the car, locking her into her seat.

You climb into his passenger seat, the car looking like it had been freshly cleaned. It smelt of pine and cherry.

“Sorry about the smell,” Conrad grimaces a little as he clips in his seatbelt, “I let Maeve pick an air freshener when I got the pine one because she wanted one for her seat as well and now it just… I don’t think the two go well together.”

You chuckle, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Here, do you want to put an address in?” He presses the screen of his car to direct you to the map, “There might be some weird stuff in there, Maeve likes to sit in the front and press the screen sometimes when we get home.”

You smile, “Yeah, um, I’m actually not sure where to go.”

Conrad looks over to you, “Is there someone who’s got a spare key?”

“My sister does,” You nod, “She’ll finish work later tonight.”

“You can come back with us,” Conrad suggests, “I mean, you can at least stay until she finishes or you figure something out.”

“Oh, no, I really wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” He assures you, “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.”

“That would be great, then, thank you.”

“Okay the other thing you need to be aware of,” Conrad begins, switching to his music on the screen, “Maeve only lets us listen to one band in the car.”

“Band?”

“She loves the beatles,” He grins proudly, “And they’re, apparently, all we’re allowed to listen to.”

“I’m good with that,” You laugh, looking back to her in the back seat, “How did that come about?”

“Well,” Conrad begins, swinging the car out of the parking space, “I used to, very badly, sing Blackbird to her when she was a baby. And then when she was maybe two she started learning some of the words. And then one day when she was a bit older I asked her what she wanted to listen to in the car and she asked for ‘the birdy song’ so we started listening and just never stopped.”

“That’s so sweet,” You beam, “I love that song.”

“Good taste,” He eyes you through the rearview mirror, “Maeve, are you going to show Miss Teacher how you sing your favourite song?”

Maeve starts singing loudly from the backseat, not missing a single word. And Conrad smiles proudly at the wheel, laughing every time her voice rose loudly over the words.

He drives into the streets of Cousins, The Beatles still sounding through the speakers, Maeve still attempting to sing along to all of the songs she knew, Conrad helping her out over the words she wasn’t sure of.

———

Their house was right near the water, grand and towering and somehow still instantly homely.

“Wow, your house is beautiful,” You say to him as you all get out of the car, Maeve hurrying ahead to get to the door.

“Thank you,” Conrad nods, “It was my Mom’s house, and I wanted Maeve to have the same childhood I’d had here every summer. So I figured why not just leave here year round?”

You smile at his response, thanking him as he lets you in ahead of him.

The house smells like fresh laundry and amber. To the right, as soon as you step in, there’s a huge playroom set up for Maeve - a big powder blue dollhouse, an easel, a chalkboard, a big doctor’s playset, trucks and cars, dolls and teddy bears, everything she could possibly imagine.

“She’s been pretending to be a teacher,” Conrad points out as he pulls Maeve’s shoes off, setting them onto a shelf, “I’m her only student.”

You smile warmly, your heart swelling.

“Come on Maeve, let’s go get your dinner ready.”

As if in domestic bliss, you, Conrad and Maeve all go through to make dinner. You help her color in a picture of fish and coral whilst Conrad quickly cooks up pasta for her on the stove.

He brings over a bowl and a bright orange spoon, checking the temperature of it on his own lip before letting her eat.

Both of you entertain her as best as you can, encouraging her until she finishes the whole bowl.

“Well she’s better behaved when Miss Teacher is here,” Conrad leans back in his chair.

You smile, “It comes with the job.”

“We should probably start getting you ready for bed,” Conrad comments to his daughter, wiping her mouth with a cloth.

“Can Miss Teacher read my book to me?” She pouts at him, a look you were sure he could never refuse.

He looks to you and back to her, “Maeve I think she’s done enough work already today. You’ll have to deal with Daddy reading you your book.”

“Oh come on,” You shake your head, “I mean… I’d be happy to if you don’t mind.”

“Wh-“ Conrad smiles softly, “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

You nod and stand up as he lifts her from her chair, setting her onto his hip.

You follow him upstairs as Conrad takes her to the bathroom, getting her ready for bed. You hear her giggle loudly at whatever he said or did, like the two of them were wrapped in complete adoration for each other. He brings her back into the room, setting her down into the plush bed, tucking her in tightly with a beige plushie dog tucked in beside her. You settle down into the seat beside her bed, taking the book they were halfway through and starting to read as Conrad pulls the door almost closed behind him.

By the time you finish the chapter, Maeve is already asleep, her breaths deep and even. You creep out as quietly as you can and back down the steps, hoping they remain silent beneath your feet.

When you get back into the kitchen, Conrad is stood over the stove stirring food around a pan.

“She’s asleep,” You say quietly, stepping over to him.

“Thank you,” He smiles softly, “I’m making some dinner if you want some.”

“Oh you don’t have to-“

“I know,” He interrupts you, “But you didn’t ask, I offered.”

You laugh gently, “Thank you.”

He nods, scooping some food into a bowl for you, and handing it over.

You smile, taking a spoonful and near enough groaning over the taste, “This is ridiculously good.”

He tilts his head, watching you, a soft smile on his lips, “You’re ridiculously welcome.”

You chuckle, taking a seat at the table as he follows you over with his own bowl of food, sitting at the head of the table, at the corner with you.

“Thank you for doing this,” You say, “Not just the food, but… well, you know.”

Conrad shrugs, “Come on, you took care of Maeve, you read to her, that’s worth a hell of a lot more.”

You smile, “She’s a really great kid.”

“You know something?” He swallows, “That’s the first night of her life I’ve not read to her to go to sleep.”

“Really?” You raise your brows.

He shrugs, “It’s always just been the two of us. From the first night we were in the hospital I read her a chapter of the book I was reading. And then I guess I just read every night since.”

“I don’t want to pry but-“ You stop yourself, “What about Maeve’s Mom?”

“Um,” He clears his throat, “She just wasn’t ready to have kids. I don’t think she realised it until Maeve was already born.”

“That must’ve been really hard on you.”

“I’m just happy she left when Maeve was too young to remember it,” He takes a breath, “As horrible as that sounds, I’m just glad Maeve doesn’t really know how to miss her Mom, if that makes sense.”

“Has she ever asked about her?”

“Just once, yeah,” He nods, “The first day she went for a playdate with this girl that lives down the street. She came home and asked me why that girl had a Mom and a Dad and she only had a Dad.”

You furrow your brows, like you could feel the hurt radiating from him, “What did you say?”

“I told her that every family was different, and that ours was just me and her now,” He nods slowly, “And I told her that I loved her and that was it.”

“Do you think-“ You stop, “Sorry, I don’t want to overstep.”

“You’re not,” He assures you.

“Do you think she’ll ever… I mean, would you ever want her Mom to be in her life?”

“When Maeve was younger, like when we had the sleepless nights and she wasn’t eating or when she got sick or she cried and cried… I used to think like she’s never going to deserve her, you know? Like I’m the one doing all of this and she’s not allowed to change her mind and decide she wants this,” Conrad shakes his head, “But now I just think… she’s her Mom. And Maeve’s like the easiest kid in the world to love, who wouldn’t want to love her? If her Mom ever changed her mind then… I don’t know, I’d be reluctant, I’d probably be pretty protective, but I couldn’t deny anyone the chance to have someone like her in their life.”

You feel tears brim in your eyes, “You’re a really good Dad, you know that?”

“Maeve likes to remind me every so often,” He smiles jokingly, “But thank you.”

You smile, finishing off the rest of your food.

“What made you want to be a teacher?” He leans back in his chair.

“Well, I started babysitting when I was in college just to get some extra money and people kept telling me I was a natural with kids,” You explain, “And I just… there’s something so beautiful about getting to somewhat be a part of helping kids to grow up, to learn, to figure themselves out and how the world works. I couldn’t think of doing anything else with my life.”

“It really is like you were made to be a teacher.”

“You think so?” You smile softly, “I’m glad.”

Both of you fall silent for a moment.

“So, how easy is it to date as a teacher?” Conrad asks.

You laugh a little, “I spend my evenings doing arts and crafts for the kids and planning lessons to teach them phonics. I don’t remember the last time I went on a date. What about you - as a doctor and a father?”

Conrad chuckles, “The last person I dated was Maeve’s Mom.”

“Nobody since?”

“Nobody,” He shakes his head, “I can’t imagine trying to explain all of this to them. When I’m not working, my whole life is about Maeve. I’d never want to bring someone into her life that was just going to leave again.”

“I think that’s a really good way to think,” You encourage, “But do you ever think you’ll be at a point where you put yourself first again?”

Conrad pauses for a moment, “I couldn’t imagine putting anyone before Maeve.”

“I know what you mean, sometimes I’m sure I’ll never find someone that I could put before the kids in my class,” You nod, “They’re always going to come first.”

Before he can speak again, Maeve’s voice calls out faintly for her father. He smiles at the sound, getting up from his chair without a second thought and going up to her.

“Hey darling,” He smiles, “Can’t sleep?”

She shakes her head, snuggling against the pillow, “I lost Rosie.”

“Oh don’t worry, she’s just here,” He picks up the toy dog from the floor, tucking her back under the covers with Maeve.

He perches on the edge of her mattress, running a hand over her hair.

“Go back to sleep honey,” He leans down and kisses her forehead softly.

“Daddy?” She says as he pulls away, “Can Miss Teacher come round every night?”

He chuckles lowly, “You like her, huh?”

“She’s my favourite lady.”

“Yeah,” Conrad nods, “She’s pretty great.”

Maeve’s eyes flutter closed then, her head snuggled against Rosie the dog.

Conrad looks down at her, realising then that this was the first dinner guest he’d ever had round that wasn’t his father or Jere or Steven or Laurel. This was the first time he’d welcomed anyone into the routine him and Maeve had that he’d always held so sacred. And somehow you’d fit into it all so naturally, so simply. That was the first time he’d opened up to anyone about Maeve’s mother, being a single father, how he felt about it all.

And part of him was sure he wanted to see you again.

He stepped back out of Maeve’s room, and back down the stairs to you.

When he gets there, you’re fixing your jacket over your shoulders, your bag slung over one arm.

“You’re going?” Conrad swallows the lump in his throat.

“Yeah, um, my sister just got here, she said she’ll drop me home,” You explain, “Thank you so much for tonight, you really saved me.”

He shakes his head, walking with you towards the front door, “You don’t need to thank me. Although I’ll now blame you if Maeve complains tomorrow night that I don’t read her books well enough.”

You giggle and the sound relaxes the nerves in his chest.

“Well, I’ll see you next week, then. Monday morning,” You smile, going to open the front door.

Conrad stops, his hand reaching for the door before yours, pausing with his hand on the door knob, “I wanted to ask you…”

You frown, eyes looking up at him where he stood so close to you.

“Sorry,” Conrad flinches, taking a step back, “I just wanted to ask… my brother’s in town next weekend. I don’t know if you have plans but maybe… well I was thinking I could ask him to stay with Maeve on Friday night and we could… I mean if you wanted to we…”

He sighs then, like he’s giving up on the idea all together.

“Conrad,” You place a hand to his arm, your thumb smoothing over the skin, “I would love to.”

“Oh,” He inhales sharply, “Right, yeah, okay, sure.”

You chuckle gently, “Then I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Yeah, bright and early.”

———

For the rest of the week, seeing Conrad at drop-off and pick-up feels you with nerves like you were a kid with your first crush.

Until Friday rolls around and he’s driving to your place to pick you up, on time and smartly dressed.

He drives you both to a restaurant in town, opens your car door for you and lets you step through the restaurant door first.

He pulls out your chair when you get to the table, smiling bashfully as he sits down opposite you.

“This restaurant is beautiful,” You glance around, watching as he takes the menu in his hand.

“Yeah, I saw it when it opened and I thought maybe it would be a good place for a date. And this is the first date I’ve had since,” Conrad smiles softly.

You chuckle, “Yeah, well, I’m honoured.”

He looks down, a flush of red on his cheeks.

“You know, I have to say,” You pause momentarily, “I don’t… do this. I don’t date my students parents or anything I just… well, I just don’t want you thinking this is normal for me.”

Conrad shakes his head, “I wasn’t thinking that.”

“I’m not even sure if this is a good idea or not but-“ You laugh a little to ease your embarrassment, “Well, I couldn’t say no to you.”

Conrad smiles, taking a deep breath, “Then, for tonight you’re not my daughter’s teacher, and I’m not your student’s father, we’re just two people on a date in a nice restaurant and that is all.”

“Deal,” You return, “So, are you a beer or a wine guy Conrad?”

The two of you talk through a shared bottle of wine, through appetizers that you put in the middle of the table to share, and entrees you make each other try. You talk about your childhoods and the random things you were obsessed with as kids, you talk about how you spent your summers and films you loved and albums you’d grown up with. You talk through so much you feel like you’re starting to know his entire life, the things that light up his eyes, the things he kept close to his heart. And he listens to you, like, really listens. He asks questions, he tilts his head and nods when you respond. You find yourself melting into your time with him, like the entire night could go by and you wouldn’t have realised that even a minute had passed.

And then his phone starts to buzz on the table, from where he’d placed it screen down in the middle.

“Sorry I should-“ He stops as he picks it up to silence it, “It’s Jere, my brother.”

“Go ahead,” You encourage him, “Answer it.”

“I mean I-“ He purses his lips, “It’s just if it’s something with Maeve then I-“

“Conrad, honestly, answer it. It’s okay.”

He takes a deep breath and picks up the call, “What’s up Jere?”

You can’t hear his brother on the other end of the phone but you see the shift in Conrad’s expression.

“Did you read her the book on the nightstand?” Conrad asks, offering you an apologetic smile, “No, no, not that one, we already finished that one.”

You smile gently, thanking the waiter as he comes to collect your empty plates.

“Okay, yeah, yeah, I-“ Conrad stops, “Just give me a minute, Jere. Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”

He hangs up the call and looks over to you, his shoulders dropping.

“Maeve won’t sleep. I think she’s just overtired now but he said she’s crying and she won’t settle, she just keeps asking for me.”

“Then let’s go back,” You encourage.

“I-“ Conrad sighs, “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is,” You promise him, “She needs you.”

He takes a deep breath before agreeing with you, calling for the check and promising you he wanted to cover it, you thank him and both gather up your things, out of the restaurant and to his car in moments. He drives back a little quicker, not excessively so but enough to make you aware that he’s worried. When you get to the house, his brother is already waiting at the door with Maeve on his hip.

“I’m so sorry man I tried everything,” Jere winces as Conrad hurries over, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Hey darling,” Conrad beams to his daughter, swooping her into his arms, “You’re up late, aren’t you? Should we get you to bed?”

He holds her against his chest, her tired head resting on his shoulder, carrying her towards the stairs.

“Should we go find Rosie? I bet she’s tired too,” Conrad says to her as they disappear up and towards her room.

Jeremiah looks back to you bashfully as you close the front door behind you, “You must be the girl my brother was very excited to go on a date with?”

You chuckle, “Yeah, yeah, I think that’s me,” You say, offering him your name, “And you’re Jere, right?”

“That’s the one,” He nods, “I’m really sorry to have ruined your night, I just… I don’t know how Conrad does it.”

“How do you mean?”

“Single parenting,” Jeremiah half-laughs, “I couldn’t even do it for one night.”

“Oh come on,” You shake your head, “It just comes with a lot of patience and a lot of practice.”

“Yeah,” Jeremiah exhales, “Conrad was always just so reluctant to ask for help, even from when he first had her, he did everything by himself. This is like the first time I’ve looked after Maeve that wasn’t just to help him out whilst he was working.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Jeremiah looks over to you, “Conrad never does anything for himself. This is the first time since even before he had her that I’ve seen him actually go out and enjoy himself for a night. I’d take that as a compliment if I were you.”

You smile, looking up towards the stairs where Conrad had just disappeared from.

“You two had a good night? Until I interrupted, obviously.”

You look to Jere and nod, “Probably the best date… yeah, the best date I think I’ve ever had.”

“Well, look at that,” Jeremiah’s lips curl into a bright smile, “You have that same look in your eye that he does when he talks about you.”

You look down shyly, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

“I should go and check if he needs anything,” He nods politely to you, jogging up the stairs towards his brother.

You walk through towards the kitchen, stopping at the scattering of photos Conrad had framed on the wall in the entrance hallway. Each one was a polaroid photo of him and Maeve, holding a different birthday cake in each one with a different number for each year, each one a different bright color. In every photo, he had Maeve sat on his knee, his arm held around her tightly, both of their smiles just as bright in each one. In every year that has passed it had always just been the two of them. Sure, they might have had some family or friends around, but when the days ended and the night fell, it was just him and her. And it always had been. There was something so admiral about it, you thought, his ability to take fatherhood completely in his stride. And he sure seemed like a natural at it.

“She’s asleep.”

His voice makes you flinch, turning around to see him just stepping down from the last step.

“She wanted Uncle Jere to stay with her so he agreed,” Conrad smiles, “They’re both fast asleep up there now.”

You chuckle, “Babysitting is tiring work.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Conrad comes up behind you, looking over your shoulder at the photos across the wall.

You feel your breath hitch at the feeling of him so close behind you, like you could practically feel his shadow wrapping around behind you.

“That one on her fourth birthday,” Conrad points over your shoulder at the photo, “I’d planned this whole party for her - I’d invited Jere and my Dad, and the Conklins as well. And then there was this storm in Philly and none of them could get here, and my Dad and Jere had some big problem at the company and couldn’t make it. And Maeve woke up that morning and I felt horrible. Like I was the worst Dad in the world.”

You frown at the sound of him talking about himself like that, turning your head just enough to watch him talk.

“And then she came downstairs and she saw all of her presents waiting, and I’d blown up all of these balloons, and she just threw her arms around me and-“ Conrad smiles, his voice cracking over the memory, “I just remember thinking that was all I needed. And then I was all she needed too. We made pancakes, we had a dance party in the lounge, we watched her favorite movie, and then I set up my camera on a timer and we still took our photo together.”

You smile, feeling a lump form in your throat at the thought.

“She told me that night that it was the best birthday she’d ever had,” He chuckles, “I don’t even know if she could remember her other birthdays but… I still believed her.”

You take a deep breath, turning around to face him, “You know Conrad, you’re always allowed to put her first. Always. I don’t want you to feel bad about choosing to come home tonight.”

“I-“ Conrad sighs deeply, “I just felt like I ruined our night.”

“Hey, no,” You shake your head, “You didn’t ruin anything. You had to be a Dad, I’d be stupid and ridiculously selfish to not see that.”

“So, I know you said you don’t date your students’ parents,” He pauses, tilting his head a little as he looks down at you, “But would you break that rule a second time?”

You laugh gently, quietly, like neither of you wanted to disturb the moment between you, “Yeah, yeah, I think I would.”

“Yeah?” Conrad feels the corners of his lips upturn, hopeful for the first time in a long time.

“Yeah.”

Conrad smiles, leaning down slowly, his eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips. And then, softly, gently, his lips meet yours. As you kiss him back, it ignites the confidence in him, his hands moving to your waist, firm and sure of themselves.

You pull away, your hands resting on his chest.

“So I know dinner ended early,” Conrad says lowly, “How does dinner and a movie sound?”

“It sounds perfect,” You smile, a gesture that seemed instinctive as soon as he was around.

“Come on,” He laces his hand with yours, leading you through the house to the lounge.

You both sit on the couch, debating over a movie to watch before settling for a random action movie Conrad scrolls far enough to find. He’s nervous at first, sitting next to you like a teenage boy on his first date. You shuffle closer to him, lifting his arm up from beside him to loop around you. He blushes bashfully, looking down.

“Sorry,” He chuckles, “Can you tell I haven’t done this in a while?”

You lean into his chest, both of you relaxing into each other, “You’re doing just fine.

He shifts his hand so that it’s around your waist, drawing you close to him.

And somewhere in the comfort and the mediocre film and the hour growing late, both of you doze into a welcome sleep.

———

“Daddy! Wake up Daddy!”

You’re bolted awake by two little hands shaking at your legs. And, reluctantly, your eyes adjust to the bright light of the morning, Conrad’s arm still around you, your head still on his chest, and Maeve now stood in front of both of you trying to shake you both awake.

“Hey darling,” Conrad grumbles, rubbing a hand over his eyes to try to get them to focus on the morning.

He shifts beside you as both of you sit up against the couch, his arms reaching up to scoop Maeve into his grasp.

“Good morning you two,” Jeremiah speaks up, walking around to flop down onto the armchair in the lounge.

“Morning,” Conrad mumbles tiredly, sitting Maeve onto his knee.

“Miss Teacher did you have a sleepover with my Daddy?” Maeve asks you, holding her dog toy in her arms.

“I did, yeah,” You smile, tiredly at her, “And you got to come and wake us up!”

“My Uncle Jere told me to,” She says and Jeremiah grins widely from his seat, “Will you stay over again?”

You look over to Conrad and he smiles softly, “Would you like that Maeve?”

She nods eagerly.

“Well I can’t say no to you,” You laugh, looking over to Conrad, “Or you.”

He grins, tilting his head to kiss the top of Maeve’s head softly.

———Eight Months Later———

“Happy birthday beautiful!” You grin widely as Maeve greets you at the door, wearing a bright green dress and a party hat on her head.

“Thank you Miss Teacher!” She grins, letting you scoop her into your arms, her small arms wrapping around your neck.

“Did you have a good morning with your Daddy?” You ask her, “Did he make… pancakes?”

“Lots and lots of them!” She beams, kicking her legs excitedly.

“Hey!” Conrad smiles warmly when he sees you, “I see Maeve got to you before I could.”

You smile as he walks over to you, leaning down to kiss you quickly.

“Do you want to see what presents I got you?” You say to Maeve and she’s quick to wiggle out of your arms to get down to the floor, “Here you go honey.”

She takes the big bag from you and runs towards the lounge.

“Maeve what do you say?” Conrad calls after her and he’s met with a loud ‘thank you’ from his daughter, followed by the sound of wrapping paper tearing

He turns around to you, kissing you for a moment longer.

“Thank you,” He repeats on behalf of his daughter, wrapping an arm around your waist as the two of you walk through to where she was already opening the first gift.

“Daddy look at this!” Maeve yells excitedly, holding up the doctor Barbie you’d got her, “She’s like you!”

“Look at that,” Conrad smiles, eyeing you as he does, “I bought her a teacher Barbie too.”

You grin, “Well, now she can have both.”

He kisses you again, turning to watch as Maeve opens up a craft set you’d got her and a bundle of new books.

“Thank you Miss Teacher!” Maeve scrambles up from her spot and comes over to wrap her arms around your legs, “Best presents ever!”

“Is that right?” You grin mischievously, looking over to Conrad who simply rolls his eyes.

“Are you okay to wait here for a second?” Conrad squeezes your hand.

“Sure.”

You crouch down as Maeve starts bringing you over toys she’d been given - a kitchen set that Uncle Jere had bought her, a bunch of games that Uncle Steven had bought.

Just then, Conrad comes walking back into the room, now holding a small heart shaped cake with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles and the number ‘6’ in a big green candle on top.

“Oh look at this Maeve!”

You grin and lift her up onto the couch, extending your arms to take the cake from Conrad. He drops down onto the couch beside her and she instantly clambers onto his knee, her feet kicking excitedly as you both sing ‘happy birthday’ to her.

She shuts her eyes tightly and blows out the candle and you both cheer.

“Alright are you ready?”

You pass the cake over to Conrad’s free hand as he holds one arm around Maeve’s torso. You grab the camera from the coffee table and hold it up to the two of them.

“Alright big smiles!” You grin, correcting the angle to get them both into frame.

Maeve and Conrad offer you matching smiles as you snap the photo of the two of the, letting the photo print out from the camera.

“Daddy we need to put it on the wall!”

“I know darling,” Conrad chuckles, setting the cake down onto the table, “We’ll put it up before you go to bed, okay?”

You go to stand up from where you are and Conrad reaches his free hand out to stop you.

“Where are you going?”

You frown, “Wh-“

“Come here,” He tugs your arm, encouraging you to sit down beside him.

He takes the camera from your hand and outstretches an arm in front of all three of you.

“Maeve can you do one more big smile?” Conrad squeezes her into him.

You lean in on the other side of him, and all three of you smile widely at the camera as he snaps the photo.

It prints out and Conrad takes it from the top, Maeve wriggling down from his leg to go over and admire her cake.

It develops in front of the two of you and Conrad holds it in his hands.

“Look at her little face,” You smile at Maeve’s cheesy grin, “She looks so much like you there.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see it more now she’s growing up,” He nods, “I think she looks like my Mom.”

You feel your heart clench and you squeeze his arm at the confession, leaning into him like you were reminding him of any comfort you could give.

He turns and kisses your head, adjusting on the couch to take his wallet from his pocket, tucking the photo inside.

He looks back at you and kisses you longingly, sealing you there in this moment, in this house, in this family. For the first time in a long time Conrad had let himself open his heart and his home to someone and he counted his lucky stars that it was you who he’d done that for.

And as he looked over, Maeve looked back at him with the cheesiest grin and he wondered for a moment if he was finally accepting that he didn’t need to be all she needed. He saw the way her face lit up when he saw you, the way you spoke to her and listened to every word she said, the way you took her under your wing without a second thought. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that you were a good and bright and needed presence in Maeve’s life, just as much as you were all of those things in his.

He looks…distinctly inhuman. Not just inhuman, but also not himself. Apart from the pointed ears and the glow in his eyes and those bright, iridescent wings (you’ll focus on that later, you decide), Kyryll is also not wearing a shirt with his hair hanging in a loose bun to keep it out of his face. He looks hot and sweaty and flushed—so unlike that typical collected, well-dressed, and polished man that you know who always runs a little cold. 

“I was looking for you?” You blink at him as you answer like it’s obvious, “You missed work.”

“Yes. That was an intentional decision,” he says, closing his eyes and gritting his jaw. He turns away from you, as if the sight of you physically makes him sick. You’re a little offended. “You should not have come here.”

“What? I have not seen or heard from you in almost a week! How do you think it makes me feel when I have to hear from your superiors, of all people, that you’ve taken a personal leave from—”

He exhales, the sound thin and weary. “Yes,” he says at last, each word carefully measured, “I took leave—for a reason.”

You blink at him, frowning. “And that reason would be?”

He closes his eyes, his jaw flexing as though he’s counting to ten in his head. “A personal one,” he replies evenly, though there’s a faint tremor in the calm of his voice. “When I am ready to return, I will do so. Until then, I would be grateful if you allowed me some solitude.”

“Solitude?” you echo, incredulous. “Kyryll, that’s not how this works. You don’t just vanish without a word and call it solitude. You didn’t reach out, you missed work for nearly a week—I was worried.”

“I am aware,” he says quietly, gaze lowering. “And for that, I apologize. It was never my intent to worry you.”

“Then what was your intent?” you demand, stepping closer as you cross your arms. “Because you can’t just disappear and expect me to act like that’s normal.”

A muscle in his cheek twitches. He’s clearly fighting something internal, trying desperately not to let it show. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, careful. Pleading, even. “I know what this looks like to you. I know it seems as though I am shutting you out. But please—believe that it is not from malice or indifference. I simply cannot…be as I should, not right now.”

You hesitate, your irritation giving way to confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he groans, “that there are parts of me I would rather you never see. And those parts are…difficult to keep hidden at present.”

You stare at him. You blink once, then twice, then you stare some more. “I have no idea what you’re implying, but your solution is to just lock yourself away and say nothing? That is ridiculous.”

He sighs, the sound faintly exasperated. “It is not ideal. But it is safer—for you, and for me.”

“Are you in danger? What is going on? Is something after you? Is it the wild hunt? Maybe we can—”

“You need to leave,” he cuts you off. “Please.”

That part makes you pause. He adds that last part with a broken, croaky little voice—like he’s begging, and it’s so bordering on pure desperation, you almost feel scared. What could possibly have happened in less than a week’s time to make him plead not to see you? To skip work? To…to look so different and not human?

Because he isn’t like you. Kyryll is not human, you realize. Concern for the man you are courting has caused you to overlook that very obvious fact for a moment, but reality has dragged you back to its awful truth and slapped the cold, hard facts into your shaky little sweaty palms and said: Look, the man you think you love is not who you think he is. 

You stare at him, the question caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs. What is he, exactly? His face looks the same—still that sharp-boned, beautiful thing you adore so much—but now, under the dim light of his living room, there’s something wrong. Perhaps not wrong, exactly. Just...unfamiliar. His skin seems to shimmer faintly, and his eyes almost illuminate the dark around him, and his ears—his ears are just a touch too pointed when he turns his head.

“Kyryll,” you breathe, “what’s happening to you?”

He exhales, a sound that almost feels laced with dread. “Nothing is happening to me—I am exactly as I am intended to be. Some traits that humans would consider abnormal are…well, they are not so rare amongst non-humans.”

You furrow your brows. “You mean to tell me you’re the latter?”

What a silly question, your mind hisses, what else would those features imply?

He hesitates, eyes closing as though it hurts to confess. “You have heard before, perhaps, that Snezhnaya was once a realm of the fae,” he says softly. “A race that is no longer of any importance, but one that does exist. I am proof enough of that, simply by standing before you.”

“And when were you going to tell me that?” you ask, your voice trembling just slightly. You wonder what that sinking feeling in your chest is—fear, perhaps? Are you scared of him? Scared of what he is, or what he isn’t? Scared that he is something else entirely, something beyond you?

No, you think faintly. Human or not, Kyryll would never hurt you. He would never let harm come your way—certainly not from himself. The ache that blooms inside you is not fear at all, but something heavier, deeper, more hurtful: the knowledge that Kyryll does not trust you. That he cannot bring himself to believe you would see him for what he truly is and still love him—that your eyes would see the what of him before the who.

“My light, it was never my intention to deceive you,” he says, pleading now. “I simply wished for more time—to cherish you as you are before the truth might…alter things between us.”

“Alter things how, exactly?” you frown. “Alter things because I’d leave? You think I can’t be trusted—is that it?”

“No.” He smiles sadly—a fragile little smile that still does something painful to your heart, easing and tightening it all at once. “No, it was never that I doubted your trust,” he murmurs. “Only whether I deserved it, once my nature was known. For that, I must apologize. I should not have hidden it from you. You are far too precious a person to entangle yourself with someone like me.”

“Oh, be quiet, you fool,” you huff, stepping closer to him. You press your palm to his cheek, and he leans into the touch with a soft, startled breath. “Self-pity will not earn you any leniency. Do not lie to me again. Understand?”

“Fae cannot lie,” he smiles faintly, eyes fluttering shut as your thumb brushes his skin. “Should we attempt it, we sicken. Very gravely, in fact.”

“Ah,” you nod with mock solemnity, “so you’re simply skilled in manipulation. How comforting.”

He laughs, just barely—a sound that fades too quickly as he pulls back, though not far enough to escape your curiosity. Your hand drifts upward, fingers brushing the sharp point of his ear. He flinches.

“Now…is perhaps not the best moment to be touching—”

“You also have wings?” you interrupt in awe, gently maneuvering him to turn around. He stiffens as your finger traces delicately up his spine from the small of his back. “Can you fly?”

“No,” he says shakily, “they would not support my weight. They are not a particularly useful trait of the fae—merely an aesthetic one, if anything.”

“Very aesthetical indeed,” you giggle.

“That is not a real word,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. His breath hitches when your finger drifts to the place where the fragile wing meets his warm skin. His skin is never warm. Kyryll runs rather cold—you complain about it often when you curl against his side. (It never stops you from cuddling him, of course, but the complaints never cease, either.)

“Hm, still clinging to your extensive knowledge of words, are you?” You roll your eyes. 

You gently rub along that small network of veins where translucent skin fades into flesh, where the shimmer of his wings dissolves against the pale slope of his back. The base of each wing seems impossibly fragile—paper-thin, like spun glass, yet alive and keenly receptive to your touch. They rise from just below his shoulder blades, delicate membranes threaded with faint iridescence, catching the light in colors that shift like oil on water. You stare in awe at that narrow strip of skin between wing and back. It’s softer, almost silken, and the sensation is strange—cool, like morning dew, yet trembling with a pulse beneath your fingertips, as though burning from beneath.

The wings flutter instinctively the more your touch wanders, a tremor rippling through the transparent folds and making him flinch—a sharp breath pulled through his teeth.

“Does that hurt?” you ask, pausing in concern.

He shakes his head, though his voice is strained when he answers. “No. They are just…sensitive.”

“I see,” you breathe in fascination. 

They are sensitive—you can feel it under your fingertips. His skin there runs cold, but the pulse beneath it beats hot and fast, trembling through the thin lattice of veins. The wings twitch involuntarily, like they’re trying to fold in on themselves to escape your touch, or maybe reach for it—you cannot quite tell. When you trace your thumb along the joint where the wing anchors to his spine again, his breath catches once more, rougher this time. The friction of your touch draws a low sound from him, half-strained, half-pleasured. The wings shiver—and then so does he.

“Kyryll?” you ask softly.

He only lets out a sharp inhale in response.

“Are you…” You falter. How do you even phrase it? How do you ask your boyfriend—who has only just shared with you his origins as something not human—the burning question at the back of your mind? There is clearly something in his system, something woven into his bloodline, his very DNA, the framework of who he is, that makes him so…pent up. (That is the only phrase you can think of.) “Is…is there something happening with you? Biologically, at least?”

He goes still at your words. The question hangs between you with thick enough tension in the air that you feel like it physically separates you, and for a moment, he seems unable to breathe. When he finally does, it’s shallow—careful.

“I—” His voice breaks, then steadies, smooth and practiced as though he’s forcing it into place. “That is…a delicate subject.”

You take a small step back. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—”

“I know.” His hand reaches and grabs yours, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles before promptly letting go. His eyes flick to yours—bright, sharp, and mesmerizing in the low light. You wonder how you never caught on before that he could not be human. “I did not intend for you to see me in such a state. It is a rather shameful condition—one might say it is…seasonal, or perhaps instinctive. A remnant of older blood. It makes my body…less easily governed.”

He swallows hard, turning his face away. The fine tremor in his wings betrays the effort it takes to keep control.

You reach out before thinking, fingers hovering over his arm. “Hey,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to be ashamed. I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

His laugh is soft, almost bitter. “You should be. There are things in me, desires in me, that are not…proper. Not human. When such old instincts rise, I am ruled by them more than I care to admit.”

He finally meets your gaze again, and something raw flickers there—fear, want, and the painful effort of restraint. The air between you tightens. Something shifts. Something that pulls you towards him just as fiercely as he wants to push you away. You ache to close that gap he wants so badly to put between you—a naive and optimistic thought process, perhaps. Kyryll knows himself and his state of mind better than you do. 

He has lived through it. For hundreds of years, evidently, and you have only known him for so long. He is perhaps, wisely so, protecting you from a part of himself that requires protection against. But you don’t find his warnings—nor his pleas for that matter—to stay away from him until this passes worth listening to. You won’t. You can’t bring yourself to. 

He looks unwell—he looks pained and in suffering and alone in this small, little home of his where nothing is there to ease his troubles, no one is there to ease his burdens or his aches. You take one look at that soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, the dampness of his clammy skin, the somehow even darker circles beneath his honeyed eyes, and you cannot fight the instinct in your heart that longs to take care of him however he needs it. The instinct that just as easily governs over your body against your will as Kyryll’s governs over his. 

Love, perhaps, is what your heart would call it. Foolishness, on the other hand, is what your mind would say. 

“It hardly happens,” he whispers, keeping his face turned insistently away from you, “once every decade or so, there are urges…and they are not very pure in nature. I am ashamed to admit I am unable to keep from harboring improper thoughts about you, my dear. It would be in your best interest to leave before I am incapable of controlling myself any longer.”

“Forgive me for being so candid,” you say with a small grin, amusement threading through your voice, “but we’ve been intimate before, you silly thing. What exactly are you trying to protect me from—sex? Kyryll, we’ve done that plenty of—”

“No.” His voice cuts through yours, low and sharp, carrying a kind of desperation that stills you. “This is hardly comparable.” He turns toward you finally, and even though his expression is composed, his eyes are not. They are hungry and wild, and his pupils almost dilate at the sight of you. His wings twitch behind him, restless. “This is not a desire one can reason with,” he continues quietly. “It is old. It does not recognize affection or care—only need. And I would sooner burn myself hollow than make an object of you.”

For a moment, you weigh his words. You can see how much effort it costs him to hold himself still, to speak in measured tones instead of instinct. So much care and respect are woven into that tense, agonized distance he keeps between you both as he wills himself to stand still. And you decide that you want none of it.

You do not care about his self-imposed moral limits and boundaries. He needs you—and by the Gods, you are going to give him what he needs.

“Kyryll,” you say firmly, the earlier humor gone from your voice. “You could have told me sooner.”

He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. “And ruin the illusion that I am civilized?”

You shake your head, stepping closer despite his warning. “You never needed illusions with me. I am the first person you should be able to turn to when you need something—when you need someone to take care of you.”

“You cannot take care of me in this form,” he clicks his teeth, patience slowly wearing thin. (He is certainly not in his right mind after all, you deduce—your Kyryll is never impatient with you. Not his usual self, at least.)

“I can,” you say stubbornly, “and I will because there is no way I am leaving you like this to suffer—so if you must use me for your own pleasure, then I think that is exactly what I will have you do because I want it of my own will. See? It is fine now, so come here and—”

“You are playing dangerous games,” his voice is deeper, lower, almost a throaty sound that vibrates in a way you’ve never heard from his usual rich, smooth, almost velvety voice. “Humans are not meant to withstand this level of…depravity that becomes my nature—”

“You are infuriatingly stubborn,” you roll your eyes. 

You step closer, moving to wrap your arms around his neck. He catches your wrists before you can press yourself closer against him. His grip is gentle, but his hand trembles as he holds yours. His pupils are blown wide, the faint iridescence of his eyes flickering like they are something alive, something of a soul of their own. “Do not tempt me,” he breathes. “You do not understand what you are inviting.”

“I think I do,” you say softly. “You’re suffering, and I won’t stand by and watch it.”

He shakes his head, his voice dropping to a low, strained murmur. “It is not the kind of suffering you can easily mend. The endurance of a fae and that of a human are…not measured in the same way.”

“I’ve never been afraid of a little imbalance,” you counter, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I like a good challenge.” For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you holds still—tense, waiting. 

And then he caves.

His hand rises to your jaw, tentative at first, as though he’s still convincing himself he shouldn’t. But the moment his skin meets yours, all restraint shatters. You’re pulled in for a kiss just as fervently as you lean in for one. Neither of you can say for certain who leans in first—who reaches for the other first. You don’t think you’d ever truly know. 

His breath his hot against your mouth, and it comes out in nothing but heavy, short puffs of air that he all but gasps for. For all his stamina as a fae that he claims to have, he seems almost out of breath from just a little kissing. Your hands wander along his back, gently rubbing against the delicate portion between skin and wings as he lets out a surprised groan of pleasure at the feeling. You giggle into his mouth as he flinches in shock from the touch.

“You weren’t lying,” you murmur into his lips, “they really are sensitive, aren't they?”

“Amused, are we?” he huffs into your mouth. 

“Maybe a little,” you admit cheekily. He only grunts in response—Kyryll in a rut is a Kyryll with very few words that he can articulate, you realize. 

You feel the bulge of his cock against your thigh as he flips you around to press you against the wall, caging you with his tall, strong body as his hands desperately cup your jaw and angle your face up, kissing you with more hunger than before. It’s hot, his erection—you can feel that sheer warmth of it through the fabric and layers of clothes, and it’s thick and twitching through his pants in a way you’ve never felt him before, as though he’s already responding to absolutely nothing from how starved he really is for anything. 

You move your thigh up, pressing it between his legs to slot perfectly against his crotch. He all but whimpers at the feeling—shuddering against you before his lips break away from yours and his face buries into your neck. 

“D-don’t stop,” he pleads, “more. I need…more.”

“I know,” you soothe, gently tugging the hair tie that keeps his long strands in that low bun until it frees his hair and lets it fall down his back. Your fingers stroke through them, delicately raking your nails along his scalp as you murmur, “I know, baby. You need more. Got it.”

He shivers at the pet name, and you smile fondly. You would have preferred to relieve him of such a clear ache with more gratifying methods, but Kyryll does not allow himself to detach from you long enough for you to even reach for the waistband of his pants and use your hand. Your thigh is as good as he allows you to pleasure him with the way he’s pressed so close to your personal space. You feel him grind against it with his own pace, meeting your movements halfway as he chases the friction against his hardened cock. 

When your fingers move back to his back, tracing the sensitive little networks of veins along the base of his wings, he groans into your neck, biting into your skin hard enough that it stings just a little. 

“Does it feel good when I touch here?” You press gently into the base of his wing for emphasis. 

He lets out a soft, breathless, almost whiny sound as he nods shakily. “Y-yes,” he swallows thickly, “very…very good.”

“How cute,” you giggle. “You are so cute.”

“M’close,” he gasps, “so…so, so close.”

“Already?” you blink in shock–you’ve really only hardly begun, “but we—”

You don’t even get to finish your thoughts before the sound of his voice, gravelly and thick with pleasure, cuts you off. 

“F-fuck, I…I’m s-sorry,” he slurs his words incoherently, “‘m…c-cumming—”

You feel the familiar rush of warmth as he spills into his pants. (Kyryll has only cum in his pants once before—one night after he had a glass of wine too many, and you’d dragged your aching core against his own throbbing sensation between his legs as you shifted on his lap between kisses. It was cute then—seeing the adorable pinkness on his cheeks as he’d stuttered an apology. You enjoyed the slightly damp feeling of his release against your leg.)

But this time…it’s a little different. He absolutely soils his own clothes as much as yours. You can tell that much just seconds into his orgasm—the sheer amount of his seed that seeps through the fabric of his pants and dampens yours has you shocked. It’s…a lot. More than normal. More than you thought possible. Clearly not a very human amount, considering he is…well, very much not human. But you try your best to keep the steady rhythm of your thigh grinding against his crotch since he has stopped moving himself in favor of stilling—his body is taut and stiff as he shudders through every wave of his high, gasping into your neck and letting out choked moans against your skin. 

“S-sorry,” he rasps, “I did not…I had not meant to tarnish your c-clothes with—ngh—” 

He cuts his own sentence off with a low grunt as another thick, warm rope of cum spills from the head of his swollen cock. You shake your head in response to his apology—he does not need to apologize, you tell him softly—before gently rubbing his back as he rides out the last final waves of his orgasm. (It’s a long wave of pleasure—you’ve witnessed Kyryll fall apart quite a few times before. You like to consider your intimate life a display of healthy passion. It’s never lasted like this before, though—you don’t think you would forget it if you’d witnessed that sort of…well, spectacle seems not the kindest word for it. But it’s certainly a sight, that much is undoubtedly true. You decide not to comment on it for the sake of his feelings, however—you do not wish to embarrass him any further.)

“It’s okay,” you smile into his temple as you kiss it, “I don’t mind. Clothes can be washed, you know, silly.”

He pants into your neck, catching his breath for a brief moment before he reluctantly peels himself away from you. His face is even more flushed—his skin is practically glowing, and his wings seem even brighter as they droop into his back almost self-consciously. He doesn’t dare meet your eyes, as if his moment of self-indulgence is too shameful a scene for him to make peace with. You can practically hear his thoughts without him saying them—humping against your leg like that is the least dignified thing a man could do to the woman he cares for. Utterly unrefined and uncouth, and lacking in respect. 

You sigh, reaching to cup his cheek. “Hey,” you whisper gently, “don’t worry too much. Do you feel better now?”

He looks at you miserably. It’s only then does your gaze wander a little lower…and you realize that he is still hard. Very, very, very hard—in fact, you don’t think it ever stopped despite the way he clearly came undone just a moment ago. 

“Oh,” you breathe.

“…As you can see,” he says shakily, “this is not a problem that will resolve itself any time soon. Not even with your best efforts, I’m afraid.”

“So you need a few more rounds,” you shrug. He looks utterly horrified by your phrasing, which only makes you grin a little before you reach out to poke the tip of his nose affectionately. “I think I can handle that, baby—”

“No.” His voice sharpens, though there’s still that tremor of restraint beneath it. “You have already done far more than I deserve, my light. I will tend to the rest on my own. You should go—for your own sake, if not for mine. Though it pains me to watch you leave, it is the wisest course until I have recovered from this…condition of mine.”

“I’m not leaving,” you frown, your tone firm and unyielding.

He exhales, long and weary. “You are impossibly stubborn. Funny that you would have accused me of being just that, not too long ago.”

“I’m not!” you protest. “Look at you—you look like you’re in pain.”

“If you would kindly refrain from voicing such mortifying observations aloud,” he says with a tired sigh, “it would preserve what fragile shred of dignity I still possess, my dearest.”

You roll your eyes fondly. 

You and Kyryll are an oddly functioning couple. You only just started calling him by his first name a few weeks ago. Before that, he was simply Flins. Mister Flins, before that, when he was just a ratnik who had saved you from a creature of the wild hunt. 

Do be careful when you wander at night, Miss, he had said politely. 

And then he had been off on his way. You run into him time and time and time and time again after that. It’s an odd way the world works, you like to think—how you can meet someone so often after one encounter when just days before, you’d never been aware of their existence. How they can bleed into everything you know so suddenly, like they’d been there this entire time, even when you’d known nothing of them for so long. Your usual places, your usual routes and paths, your usual stops. All of them have been the same for long enough that you wonder if perhaps they have merged with your cells and become part of who you are. 

The one thing that was never there before was him. And then, as if the Gods had willed it, he was. Always, in every corner, it was Mister Flins. 

How funny of a way the world works that things are thrust into your small bubble against your will, invading the tiny space of what you know and becoming one with all the things you hold dear. 

Mister Flins at the market buying spices at the same time as you. Mister Flins walking down the same path as you are as he makes his way to his superior’s office. Mister Flins in the area to fix some broken part of his lamp. Mister Flins and a drink he asks to grab with you when you both happen to be free. Flins after that—he asks you kindly to drop the Mister. Flins and a nice dinner that he offers the bill for instantly. Flins at your place of work to escort you home in the evening—it’s dark out, you know, Miss. Flins in your kitchen as you make lunch while he’s in the area. Flins and that coat of his that he likes to drape over your couch when he’s here to stay for a while. Flins when you wake up in the morning, and he’s still there, tangled in the sheets with you. Flins who asks you to call him Kyryll, if you would accept—it’s only fair that two people who are courting use their proper names. 

How long of a way you have come—from calling him Mister and hoping if you might ever run into him again, to whispering Kyryll like it’s a prayer and letting yourself into his home as you please. How far of a way you still have to go—he is still too embarrassed to be open with the physical desire that consumes him so wholly despite being intimate with you so many times before. 

You wonder if a decade from now, Kyryll will warn you in advance that he will experience this same thing once more. If this time, instead of hiding from you, he might ask you to help him, take care of him. If he’ll trust you and put aside his composure and be fragile in your hands, so that you can carefully curl your hand and cup him in there, keeping him tucked into your hold, protected from the world. 

You sigh, shaking your head in fondness before you gently murmur, “If you would just shove aside your pride for a moment and understand that I do not find shame in your nature, then perhaps we might both have an enjoyable time. I don’t dislike being intimate with you, you know—it isn’t as though it’s a chore for me.”

He swallows, mulling over your words before his shoulders ease. A loose, breathless chuckle slips past his lips. “You are remarkably eager to bed me, my love.”

“Don’t be so smug,” you scoff, stepping toward him as your arms curl around his neck. 

He hums, burying his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of you. You can still feel the throbbing length tucked away in his tight pants—but you let him set his own pace for how he wants to do this. This is about him, you remind yourself, him and his…whatever this fever is called that has consumed him and turned him into a sexual-haze induced version of himself with mythical features you did not think people of this world could possess. 

You hesitate, voice gentle. “So…is this basically…like a rut or something?”

Kyryll stills, then exhales slowly against your skin. His laugh is quiet, resigned—the sound of a man who has given up on maintaining dignity. “If you insist on using such a barbaric term, then yes,” he murmurs, voice low and rueful. “It is something akin to that.”

“Ah,” you nod, trying not to grin. “Good to know.”

He lifts his head, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “I can feel you laughing at me.”

“I would never,” you lie, smiling sweetly. Silence lingers for a beat before your curiosity wins out. “But wait—how come I never see your features like this? The ears, the wings…” your gaze drifts downward and back up again, “I’ve seen you naked plenty before, and those wings definitely weren’t there then.”

A soft sigh escapes him as he closes his eyes, the faintest trace of embarrassment lacing his tone. “I can usually hide them,” he admits quietly. “Most of my kind evolved to conceal the traits that set us apart. The wings, the ears—I have learned to keep them hidden away to pass unnoticed among humans.” His wings twitch faintly behind him, betraying his irritation. “But in this state…” his voice roughens slightly, “I cannot maintain that restraint. They emerge on their own.”

You hum thoughtfully. “So your wings come out when you’re horny.”

He groans, shoulders slumping. “You do have an unmatched talent for vulgar phrasing, my light.”

“I like to think it’s one of my more endearing qualities,” you grin, brushing a fingertip along the curve of his ear until he shivers. “Don’t you?”

He gives you a look—half exasperation, half resigned fondness. “Endearing is one word for it,” he murmurs dryly. “There are others I might choose.”

“Charming? Irresistible? The light of your lonely, dark little life?” you suggest, all innocent eyes.

“Insufferable,” he says immediately.

You press a hand to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me. Truly, so mean.”

“You’ll recover.” His lips twitch, betraying amusement. “You always do.”

You grin wider, leaning closer so your noses almost brush. “Only because I am so fond of you. The things I endure in order to love you are what some might consider horrors, you know.”

“I’ve watched you survive far worse than my teasing,” he replies, arching a brow. You hum thoughtfully. 

“True,” you whisper as you bite back a grin, “so surely, I can handle you when you are not entirely yourself.”

He exhales, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—soft, endeared. “Incorrigible,” he murmurs, though the word loses its bite when you rise on your toes and press your lips to his.

The kiss starts tentative, almost cautious. You test the waters, and he trembles faintly against you, as though afraid he might hurt you just by touching. But when you tilt your head and draw him closer by the back of his neck, that restraint begins to crack. His hands find your waist, firm yet so achingly soft the way that Kyryll always is, and he kisses you again—deeper this time. Harder. Like he means it. The kind of kiss that steals the breath right out of your lungs as he inhales it for himself.

You feel his heartbeat where your palms rest against his bare chest, and the faint shiver of his wings brushing against your hands as they travel from his sternum to his back. When you part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, the tips of his pointy, adorable little ears flushed a faint shade of rose.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice hoarse with longing.

“Positive,” you breathe, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. He presses a kiss to the pad of your finger before nodding. 

“You’ll try to stop me if it’s too much? Perhaps we should keep something heavy nearby so you may hit me if I do not listen to reason—I will certainly survive the blow and—”

“I am not hitting your head, Kyryll,” you gape, “and I’m not backing out, either. Now fuck me—I want you.”

“Must you say it just like that?” he asks tiredly. 

You giggle, nodding as you murmur, “How else will I prove my enthusiasm to feel you?”

That seems to undo him completely. He looks at you for a moment—good and long and hard before he kisses you again. This time, it’s with the kind of fervor that feels almost desperate now, stumbling a little as you both move in a tangle of limbs through the quiet rooms of his home. His hand stays at the small of your back, guiding you blindly toward the bedroom, though his mouth never leaves yours for long.

The journey there is clumsy and impatient—you nearly trip over a low stool in your rush, and he catches you with a low laugh that melts against your lips. His wings flutter, brushing against furniture, fragile things trembling with the same tension that threads through his entire body. He moans into your mouth every few moments, unable to keep his usual composure and bite back the sounds. You like this version of Kyryll—the version that makes his pleasure a loudly known fact rather than a politely kept secret. 

By the time your knees hit the edge of his bed, he’s panting harshly, worked back up to impatience for release as his body burns with tension.

“This is your last chance to leave while you easily can, you know,” he says lowly—his voice thick, hoarse, and edged with something that no longer sounds entirely human. Each word rasps as though dragged through gravel, deeper and rougher than before, echoing faintly in his chest before reaching you. The sound sends a shiver down your spine—not from fear, but from the strange, thrilling feeling of want piercing through your spine. 

You meet his gaze steadily. “I’m not backing out,” you say, your voice so firm and sure.

He closes his eyes, jaw tightening as though your words physically pull at the fraying thread of his control. “You do not understand what you invite, my light.”

“I don’t want to understand,” you whisper, reaching for him, “I just want you.”

His breath stutters at the touch. For a moment, he seems frozen, torn between his care for you and his instinct of desire. Then—as if his biology finally wins over—whatever fragile barrier he’s built around himself shatters. The sound that escapes him is low, almost feral, but still unmistakably him. 

“I told you,” he says gruffly, “I will not be guided by my affections. Yet you insist so firmly to see a version of me that only fucks you with instinct alone—is that what you truly want? A man as depraved and senseless as this? What little regard for your fragile, human body,” he chuckles. 

His mouth claims yours before you can reply—hard and bruising and all teeth, filled with a relentless urgency. You gasp, arching into his touch as his large, impatient hands tug you closer by your clothes. (So this is what he meant, you think—Kyryll is utterly lacking in his typical gentleness. No—in fact, his gentleness is completely gone.)

Your clothes are torn off in a swift motion. He does not bother disrobing you, does not bother taking his time to admire you, or tease you, or simply just bask in the moment of being so intimately close to you. Instead, he grabs the fabric with a rough hand, pulls with more force than you’ve ever seen from him, and tears the fabric without remorse. You gasp at the sight of it being completely irreparable. 

“Kyryll!” you hiss, “soiling clothes is one thing, but destroying them is an entirely separate—”

“Enough,” he cuts in, voice low and edged. “They were in my way. I will not waste time with trivial barriers.”

You shiver at the sound of such a rough tone in his voice. Long gone is the delicate, well-mannered, and well-spoken man you know—long gone is his patience and sweetness and lingering precision in everything he does. 

His hands squeeze at your hips in appreciation as he marvels at the sight of your curves and bare skin. “Mmh, and to think I was going to deny myself such a splendid gift—where such patience had graced me, even I myself cannot tell. No matter—I will make the most of such a wonderful blessing.” 

You’re dripping—his words alone, his sheer desire to use you alone, have made the ache between your legs worsen, and the pool of slick collecting there does the same. It coats your inner thighs, and when he roughly spreads your legs apart, humming at the sigh of your bare cunt, you whimper. 

“What a sight,” he groans, “I cannot wait until I am buried in the warmth of such a beautiful, perfect cunt.”

He is much less hesitant to use filthier words, too, you realize. And less focused on you and your pleasure as his fingers sink past the velvety walls of your pussy, curling deep into that spongy, sensitive spot that makes you mewl. Nothing about this is gentle. Nothing about it is thoughtful and giving and filled with adoration like Kyryll always is when he beds you. Nothing about it puts your pleasure above all else and does it for the sole purpose of making you feel good and feel his devotion. 

No. Instead, Kyryll fucks his fingers into you because he needs you prepped and ready to take his cock. He also wants to feel the warmth of your walls flutter around his fingers because his mind is in a filthy haze. You can tell because the way he groans as his fingers pump into you, scissoring and stretching you open, has nothing to do with the way you gasp and twitch from pleasure, but everything to do with the wet, squelching sound he hears and that shiny, messy essence that he sees coating his fingers. 

“So warm,” he moans, “how long before I can sink the entirety of my cock into such a perfectly awaiting pussy, I wonder.”

“K-Kyryll, please—”

“Say that again,” he demands, “say my name like that again. Say it.”

“Kyryll,” you sob brokenly. His fingertips are so cruel, slamming and curling into that sensitive spot so rough and fast, so impatient to get you gushing around him so that you are ready to take his cock with ease. “M’go-gonna…gonna cum—fuck!”

“There it is, my dove,” he smiles, pleased. “I knew you would do well—after all, you always give me just what I want, don’t you? It’s what you know best, isn’t it? Such a good, obedient human.” 

Your orgasm doesn’t last long—it’s not like the usual sort of high Kyryll coaxes out of you. It’s not soft and prolonged and doesn’t make you slip into a hazy, blissful state that makes you feel like you’re floating. Instead, it all but makes you black out, a wave of pleasure that absolutely wrecks you and shocks your body right to its core. It’s impatient and fast, and when you come down from the split second of pure white-hot pleasure, he is already there, studying your fluttering walls and humming in approval. 

“I think you are sufficiently ready, don’t you think, my dear?” he all but growls. 

You watch deliriously as he unzips his pants, quickly shrugging them and his boxers off in a swift movement and freeing his cock—and oh. You have seen his cock. You have taken his cock down your throat and deep in your walls, and you’ve felt the weight of it in your hand. You are not a stranger to the sight of Kyryll’s cock, but you are a stranger to his version of it—the version of it that has thicker veins that are practically glowing along the side of his length. The version of it that has messy, runny, iridescent pre cum leaking from the tip and coating his pink, flushed cockhead. The version of it that looks even bigger and thicker, and longer than you remember it. 

You gasp at the sheer sight of it, instinctively pressing your thighs together in…in what? You do not even know. In fear? In excitement? In need of relief at the sheer excitement it sends through your aching core, or in need of a break before you’ve even begun from the sheer size of it that will surely break you. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, “oh my god, it…it’s not going to fit,”  you shake your head. “K-Kyryll, you’ll…you’ll break me.”

“Will I?” he chuckles, slightly mocking as he leans down and presses a flurry of kisses along your jaw, sucking and biting at your skin before he makes his way to your neck and inhales the scent of you once more. It occurs to you then that perhaps the scent of you has only been driving him more mad this whole time—that with the way he’s taken every opportunity to sniff at your skin, he must be absolutely overwhelmed by the scent of you. “I specifically remember you saying you would not mind doing this with me and that it was not a chore. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“L-look at the…the size of…of it!” you stutter, “that is not what it usually is!”

“We will easily make it fit, my dove,” he hums, “not to worry. There is no doubt that this pretty cunt will open up nice and slowly for me—after all, she is a good, good girl, isn’t she?”

He traces a thumb over your clit as he says that—and when you whine, jolting from the touch, he chuckles in a sick, almost twisted form of amusement. Without warning, he grabs a leg, hooking it over his shoulder as his hand squeezes the meat of your thigh and groans. 

“You were made for my taking,” he says, staring at your body as though he’s in a heavy trance. His eyes are wide and dilated, unfocused and almost wild as he rakes them over every section of bare skin he can. “I am going to take great pleasure in feeling the tight warmth of you wrapped around me—what a wonderful fate life has granted me, indeed.”

With that, he leans down to hover over you, and the knee tossed over his shoulder bends and practically meets your chest as he closes the gap and kisses you roughly. The thick, blunt head of his cock meets the entrance of your cunt, pushing past the folds slowly, carefully for a moment that you almost think that this is your Kyryll—the Kyryll that you know and love. 

But then, with a rough snap of his hips, he’s pressed a good amount of his length into you, stretching you with a burning girth that makes you cry out in a sharp mewl. “T-too much, baby,” you sob, “w-wait—”

“You can take it, my dear,” he insists, kissing away the tears with chapped, warm lips that feel nothing like the usual soft and cool ones you’re used to. You hardly recognize the man who is taking you, and yet…and yet, you cannot help but fall in love even deeper with him in this state. Every fiber of your existence should scream to run, but instead, they long to be intertwined with him. Threaded into the very fibers of his own existence, living tangled and one with him. 

He’s right. You can take him—and you do. He snaps his hips one more time and buries the rest of himself into you, completely down to the hilt and completely filling you up until you feel almost certain that you can feel him in your throat and lungs. 

“S-so big,” you gasp, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him as your walls flutter around the intrusion of his thick, swollen cock. He groans, wings fluttering behind him impatiently as he waits for you to give the signal that you’re ready for him to move—he still has enough sense in his system for that much kindness. “S-so full, baby—m’so full.”

“Yes,” he says hoarsely, “what a sweet, precious girl, you are—taking me so well. Such a darling light I have that takes me so well and doesn’t complain. I simply adore you, my dove.”

You mewl at the praise, clawing at his back with your nails as you pull him closer—and impatiently, with a jolt of your hips, you plead, “M-move! Move, please…need to feel you so bad.”

Your hands rub along his back—and without the same careful, gentle precision as before, you rub at the base of his wings, too. Friction at the delicate, sensitive, almost painful nerve-endings at his wings that respond to your touch by twitching harshly. He lets out a gasp, jolting with a low, drawn-out moan that is obscenely loud. Obscene. Kyryll is never much of an obscene sight even in the throes of pleasure, but you suppose such a frenzied, desperate state of mind would make him prioritize his composure last. 

“F-fuck—I told you, those are sensitive,” he hisses, “you…you cannot simply just touch and feel them as you please unless you want to—”

You lean up and bite at his earlobe, effectively cutting him off as his breath gets caught in his throat. You hear the hitch before you whisper into the shell of his pointed ear, “Kyryll, just fuck me already. What in the Gods' names are you waiting for?”

That makes something in him snap. Something carnal and hungry and desperate and…so far gone in his desires, it almost feels animalistic. His hips snap, harsh and fast, and nudge his cock deeper and deeper past your folds, pressing effortlessly against that sensitive, delicate spot in the back of your walls. Your Kyryll usually knows where that spot is; he usually aims his thrusts to kiss that spot with the blunt head of his cock purposely. 

This Kyryll doesn’t try. He doesn’t even think to find your pleasure points, drilling his aching length and chasing the warm friction of the tight walls that surround him without a thought. It just so happens that naturally so, with the sheer size and girth of him, with the perfect curve of cock, he manages to find that spot anyway. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “ngh—you are so…so soft. So exquisite and warm and so fucking tight.”

Your legs wrap around his hips, bracing yourself for every forceful, heavy snap of his hips. It’s fast and rough and impatient. It’s everything your Kyryll is not. It’s hungry and mad and vulgar. There’s a filthy squelching sound that mixes in with both of your pleasured sounds—a wet, filthy one that comes from skin slapping on skin and the way his cock slips in and out of your dripping cunt. 

“I’ll fill you up,” he says lowly, “there is a perfect little womb right here,” his large hand presses against your belly, applying light pressure against it as he thrusts into you, making you wail. “And I intend to make good use of it. I will fill this womb up with my seed over and over again—until it takes. However many times I must, I will. Until you are swollen with a child that will have both the bloodline of a fae and a delicate little human.”

“P-please—”

“Is that what you want?” He coos, “to have a child you can bear with half of me and you? Perhaps my eyes? Your smile? Is that what my darling little human wants?”

“Y-yes,” you sob, “yes, yes—please!”

“Then far be it from me to deny such a precious request,” he hums. 

You moan into his mouth as he kisses you roughly. A messy dance of tongue and teeth and hot breath that you exchange between heavy panting. One hand tangles in his hair and tugs, and the other alternates between scratching into his back and rubbing over those delicate nerves at the base of his wings. You feel him jolt every time you trace them—feel him let out a tiny whimper into your mouth when your thumb catches over a particularly delicate membrane that makes his whole body shudder. 

“Oh,” he groans roughly, “I’m…I’m c-close—so…so tight. It’s never…it’s never felt like this before.”

For a fleeting moment, you wonder what he means by that—he’s fucked you plenty of times before. Plenty of times, he’s felt the slick tightness of your cunt and the warm walls that wrap around him invitingly. Then…then it occurs to you that perhaps…perhaps this is the first time Kyryll has ever fucked somebody at all during a rut. Perhaps he has never had the company of another while he locks himself away in his home. 

Perhaps, all these years, he’s had nothing but the frustrating company of his own hand against his cock, a limited and lonely form of relief for that awful, throbbing ache between his legs. You imagine it—the sight of him sprawled on his bed, bare and sweaty and painfully erect. The sight of his fist stroking his cock and squeezing at the base while he bites the palm of his hand and chokes on sounds he tries to suppress. The sight of him spilling into his hand and feeling the tremors of his pleasure all alone with no one to whisper sweet nothings to him as he comes down from the high. 

What a lonely, awful way it must have been to ease his aches. What a lonely, awful fate he was so willingly to resign himself to again before you had wormed your way into his home and demanded an explanation from him. A part of you knows he had done it mainly out of fear—fear of hurting you and losing control. Fear of slipping too far in his desires and taking it further than he would ever dream of, and causing you harm. 

But another part of you wonders if Kyryll is just too used to being alone. If his mind and body are accustomed to being alone during something like this, that even when his body craves the heat and closeness of someone else, even when his mind has envisioned you in less than proper ways, like he’s said himself, he is too ingrained in the habit of being alone. Being far, far away from others and handling things alone. Being far, far away from you when he thinks himself to be a burden who does not deserve your closeness or your care or your intimacy. 

And you don’t like it. You don’t want his mind to think that way on default and put space between you when all you want is to be nestled into his skin and make home in his ribcage. You’re safest there—he would protect you with his bones and shatter them first before anything would harm you. You know that. 

And you want to take care of him. See the less than human parts and make them feel welcome in this big, large world where there is room for both of you to exist with your differences. 

“Have you ever fucked someone like this, Kyryll?” You whisper, “When your body is flushed and warm like this? Has anyone touched these cute little wings of yours as you fucked your load into them? Held you as you come undone? That’s what you deserve, don’t you think?”

Filthy. That’s how you make him feel. That’s how he makes you feel, too. Even when you are being sweet, you are both downright, purely filthy. 

“No,” he rasps, “fuck—no, I haven’t. I’ve never…n-never had someone before you for…for this.”

“So I’m your first proper rut, is that it?” You manage to giggle even through his ruthless, heavy thrusts. Even as he bullies his cock into your folds as deep as it’ll go, you find a way to tease and mock him. 

(And he likes it. There is, undeniably, a part of him that excites when you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel him twitch inside of your cunt like that.)

“Yes,” he groans loudly, dizzy with pleasure as you squeeze around him, “yes…my first…first proper one.”

His hips stutter for a moment as he says the words—like he’s mulling them over and pondering on the implications of them before suddenly, your other leg is thrown over his shoulder and you cannot help but squeal in shock from the force of his body maneuvering yours. He folds you in half, and your knees are almost pressed to your chest. 

He rolls his hips in quick, impatient thrusts—sloppy in rhythm and no longer as deliberate as they once were in pace. He’s close. This Kyryll is so, so different from your Kyryll, but he’s still the same. You recognize the patterns as they come. That slack jaw and those eyes that flutter shut and roll to the back of his head. The deep, heavy breaths and the low, raspy grunts. The familiar way his pace becomes messy and less rhythmic as he tries to grind into you and chase the friction. And finally, the small, little twitch his cock does before he spills into you. It’s warm—so fucking warm and thick, and it fills you up from just a few ropes. 

“M’c-cumming,” he says hoarsely, so fragile and broken as pleasure bleeds through his veins and shoots along his nerves. “So…so good, love—you always feel so good.”

Just like the first time he came in his pants right against your legs, he spills more seed than you ever imagined possible. It paints your walls white, and he does a careful job of fucking the load into you as it spills, never stilling for a second. You can feel it leaking from your folds—there’s a mess of his cum and your slick leaking past your folds and coating your inner thighs, dripping along your skin. 

He watches, mesmerized. 

And when a particularly sharp thrust lands, you follow him as you fall off the edge and go hurtling into your own pleasure. It’s dizzying. He’s never stretched you like this—you’ve never felt veins this thick rub against your walls and drag along with such sickening friction. When you cum, you cum hard—harder than you ever have on his cock. You squeeze around him, milking him of the last of his thick ropes of cum and making sure he gives you everything he can. 

“Kyryll,” you gasp—you chant it a few more times as you ride out the final waves of your high, unable to form anything else but the thought of his name. “Oh,” you breathe, “fuck.”

He slumps over you as he finishes, catching his breath in the crook of your neck. His wings tremble faintly before folding closed, and for a long moment, the only sound is his heavy breathing and the faint hum of his heartbeat against your chest.

When he finally speaks, his voice is still rough, still deep and throaty. “I did warn you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “I told you I lose myself in this state. You insisted on testing me.”

You hum, utterly unbothered, fingers lazily combing through his damp hair. “Lose yourself? That was you losing control? I must say, I expected something a little more…dramatic.”

He lifts his head, giving you a look equal parts disbelief and exhaustion. “You have the audacity to critique my performance?”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, grinning, “for all that talk about feral instincts and uncontrollable urges, you were still very polite about it. You even romantically asked to start a family with me.”

A huff of laughter escapes him despite himself. “You mock me even now?”

“Only because it’s easy,” you grin, kissing his cheek. “All that talk, and you’re already out of breath.”

A low, breathless hum escapes him. “No need to worry,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual—and you feel the familiar twitch of his cock. Still hard and still swollen inside you. “We still have a long way to go before my desires are satisfied. I hope you’re prepared.”

You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, eyes widening a fraction. “Oh…how long?”

Kyryll smirks—that infuriating, elegant smirk that makes you weak-kneed. “Well,” he begins, voice dipping, “I did say that fae have a lot of stamina.”

“Well…” you murmur, looking at him with defiant eyes. “I still think I can handle that.”

He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, “We shall see,” he rasps, “because I am not finished with you yet.”

You aren’t certain when this unimaginable pull happened, was it the way you first saw the dawn captured red upon his braided hair? Or was it his big eyes that furnaced and melted into gold ingots with flicks of honey?

Your heart flutters at the thought of simply just encountering him, your fingers bunching up your fabrics as your carriage arrives at the city gates.

With a table full of wine, goat cheese and fruits—it was easy to slip away from your father. He was too busy settling jovial talks about the kingdoms’ flourish with Kremnos’ leaders to realize your absence. The unfamiliar palace is bigger than you expected, grandeur even, completely different from your home city. When your eyes trace the intricate patterns upon their pillars you can immediately seize out the lion from its marble carvings. But despite its size, it was no challenge to locate the prince.

The sound of clashing wooden swords would indicate where he was since you are aware of his duties to fight—and it is said that crown prince Mydeimos is usually seen spending his leisure on swordsmanship practice with young lord Phainon.

At times, you envy how often Lord Phainon is mentioned around the prince.

They both seem really close.

When the harsh clacks of wood on wood floats around your ears, your hurried paces falter into quiet footsteps. You find yourself sneaking under an olive tree and peeking through the shrubs, eyes landing on two boys on the garden with cobblestone beneath their leather boots—they seem entirely engrossed in their sparring. Under the honeyed heat your lips purse, watching Mydeimos dance around Phainon, wooden swords blurring your vision, swishing and parrying in front of them as each boy exchange light blows with one another.

An exhausted rasp of a chuckle comes spilling down Mydei’s lips, he angles his sword to block when Phainon leans forward, cutting down hard in his direction. You’ve noticed their manner in fighting and can weed out the difference in an instant. Lord Phainon is calculated with his movements, there’s stability in his balance, reassurance woven into the sinews of his back beneath his white tunic. Prince Mydeimos on the other hand is more fluid, he makes use of his dynamics and his footwork is unpredictable, but there’s grace captured in it—like he’s dancing—lunging forward in strict confidence then sidestepping, bouncing back then spinning.

Mydei smiles—a boyish grin that crinkles his eyes—seemingly setting the whole place an inch brighter than before and you’re blinded by the setting sun. You tilt your head more, unable to deny the warm flush from the pillows of your cheeks when you see the hint of dimples on his face, dimples.

The prince is truly astonishing.

Years you were under the tutelage of different priests, learning about prophetic dreams and imagery and clairvoyance—but maybe you were too dizzy watching the boys zip around the gardens, or maybe you were too into your daydreams you didn’t notice how they had hastened their attacks. Mydei was now attacking Phainon in quick succession, seemingly drunk under the thrill to notice Phainon’s stuttering words of take a break or slow down your highness. You were too distracted to notice how the prince swipes up, cutting the atmosphere—the lord’s wooden sword flies out his grasp and comes spinning in your direction.

Oh.

You feel the solid plank crash against your forehead—barely registering the shock that jolts through the two boys when you stumble onto the marble floor, holding your face that seems to quickly heat at both the pain and the embarrassment.

Oh.

“Oh, lord what have you done—“

“Me?” Phainon panics. “You were the one that didn’t stop attacking, I told you numerous times how I prefer a great sword than a simple one. I’m unfamiliar with the weight.”

“Well, I—“

“Ow…”

Their attention snaps back to you. Mydei tosses his wooden sword onto the cobblestone uncaringly and along with Phainon, comes to your aid.

“Hey, are you okay?” Both holding out their hands when they ease you back to your feet. Phainon leans down to brush the crumbs of dirt from your attire, checking to see if you have other injuries whilst Mydei winces at your reddening face.

“I—truly, I apologize.” You can hear the sincerity and guilt in the young prince’s tone. “I didn’t mean…”

“No, I—“ you were quick to speak up as well. Your face furnacing even more when his concerned honey eyes latch with your own—to think your first interaction with each other would be this, how humiliating.

“I was the one who intruded.” You murmur, leaning down to bow. “I apologize for getting in the way, young lords i didn’t want to disturb—“

“Oh gods.” Phainon curses.

You lift your head, confused, until you feel something hot trickling down your nose. Both your hand and Mydei’s fly up to your face, barely containing the blood that rolls down your chin.

“Prince, I think we are in trouble.”

“Stop saying nonsense, Phainon. Tell a servant to fetch us a cloth and a basin of water immediately.”

He didn’t need to be told twice and he was swift, his feet tapping along the marble as he sprinted down the hallway and now you were left alone with Kremnos’ young heir.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest.

Luck was definitely not on your side today.

“Hey, uhm…” Mydei trails off. You see the cogs in his head turning before he gently lets go of your face, you feel a soft pressure at the back of your skull instead as the prince beckons you to lean down towards him.

“Here, press your nose on my tunic. It would be a problem if we don’t add pressure to stop the bleeding—“

Your eyes widen, cheeks hot as coals. You find yourself shaking your head fervently, using the young prince’s shirt to help your nosebleed? if your reputation hadn’t sunk to the bottom of a seabed, it had now. How could you, and to Prince Mydeimos of all people?

But Mydei is persistent, somehow unaware that your flushed face is more likely due to the shame you felt than your injury.

“Please.” He pushes gently. “I insist.”

His palm on the back of your head is steady, fingers rubbing the hair there, his other hand pinch his fabric shirt and tugs it up to press against your bleeding nose. ”Lord Phainon will be back soon, so rest assured. I truly apologize for my lack of manners today.”

It felt like a whole minute with you in close proximity with the Prince, then after that, when a servant came to tend to you—both prince Mydei and lord Phainon received an earful from the adults, to dare bring harm upon a young guest clergy from Janusopolis is an act of slander, they said to the young boys.

And you are no different as your father shakes his head at you, “you’re very lucky that they practiced with wooden swords, what were to happen if they were using actual weapons, what if it was a spear?”

You turn away, “I’m sorry, father—“

“That’s enough child. I should’ve known this would happen, especially with that curiosity of yours. I’ve told you time and time again to steer clear from training grounds, you are not fit for combat.” He pats your shoulder softly. “Come now, let’s not dawdle. We still have to visit the other cities.”

But father, it’s not mere curiosity. You wanted to combat but decide against it.

When you tag along with your father with flushed pink nose and defeated shoulders, you dare slip a glance from behind. Watching the young prince and the lord getting scolded.

But what you didn’t expect was Prince Mydeimos’ honey eyes already on you.

You turned away quickly and never looked back.

A week passes and your shame does not settle nor fade.

“Looks like you had quite a delightful time.” A throwaway comment from Anaxa, you don’t respond and he doesn’t even bother to look in your direction, flipping another scroll and perusing the text casually.

“What do I do, Anaxa, Hyacine?”

“What must you do?” Anaxa shoots you a puzzled look. “Bumping into Prince Mydeimos in Okhema is one in a million, and I am certain your father won’t take you back to Castrum Kremnos after that troubling incident.

“This is so unfair.” You bury your face onto your arms.

Your younger companion heartens over your shoulder, “Cheer up. I’m sure you’ll stumble into him eventually.” Hyacine smiles at you. “After all, Okhema is celebrating a festival. You never know.”

Your eyes gloss over the open window, from the distance you hear the alluring instruments hither thither in gracious waves, the warm winds gossip, the furors of the crowd echo, the clinking of wine and your companions’ soft murmurs from behind you. You lean your cheek against your arm, watching the sky like a meadow of blues.

Distracted, you don’t notice someone approaching until you see a hand come over your vision.

Your eyes flutter, tracing the calloused palm down the arm before meeting the face.

Honey eyes greet you back.

You jolt, Prince Mydeimos.

He sees the recognition spark in your eyes and he smiles, “So it was you.” He lowers his hand, tugging his cloak. “I thought I recognized someone familiar on the window, it’s nice to see you again!”

“Prin…Prince Mydeimos.” You've straightened now. “What are you doing here?”

Your heart seizes when you watch him lean close to you, his dimples are prominent from here, like an intentional dip on a carved marble. He presses a finger to his lips, his boyish grin almost contagious.

“I sneaked away.” He rasps. “It’s a little stiff to have servants follow you around in Okhema’s festival.”

“Oh, I see.” Your eyes fleet. It seems like it has caught the attention of your companions, for the young priestess and sage are now leaning against the wall beside the window, out of view from Mydeimos.

The prince places a hand on the windowsill. “Do you want to come with me?”

Your lips part. “Come with you?”

“Yes. I uhm.” Mydei turns away, then looks back at you. “I want to make it up to you, for what happened last week.”

“There’s no need for that, prince. I’m perfectly okay now and it’s my fault you and the lord got into trouble.” Despite your incessant shakes, he combats it with stubbornness.

“I understand. But I still feel responsible for what has happened.” He tells you. “Then, if not to make up for it, just keep me company?”

“I’m not supposed to…” You hesitate.

But then you felt a foot tap your ankle. Your eyes flicker briefly towards Anaxa and Hyacine—one giving you an encouraging nod and the other had apathy in the face, but he tilts his head on the window as if beckoning you to go. You crack a smile then turn to Mydei and nod.

His smile widens, then he hoists you out of the window frame, strong arms around your torso. Your cheeks darken at his actions.

When the two of you walk down the street, you are splashed with the joyful spirit weaving through the festival. You don’t usually participate whenever these festivals happen, you have no one to go with you. You never wanted to bother your father with your trivial requests, and you had your own duties to finish that you don’t have time for leisure.

The prince tries to match your pace, shoulders barely touching but it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. In fact, Mydeimos has been kind to you which was far from the confident boy who held a spear in the arena.

He treats you as if you are something to him—you immediately shake such thoughts from your head.

Mydei taps your shoulder, pulling you out of your daydreams. “Are you hungry?”

In the young prince’s hands were two figs. You graciously took one from him. “Thank you, Prince Mydeimos.”

The honeycomb in his eyes softened. “Please just call me Mydei.” The fruit is brought to his lips, a crunch resounds when he takes a big bite.

During that time, under the golden festival hue—Mydeimos appeared like a brilliant child, the spirit still flickering a candle in his eyes and the looks he gave you, they were so undeniably soft. You both stopped at small stands, lingered at performances and smiled at the musicians playing instruments—all the while the prince made sure you were entertained and satiated with food; soft bread, cakes, olives. He even goes on a tangent when you had said you never tried specific meat before—those that were exclusive to the high and wealthy.

The prince would take each meat from the table, cupping a hand beneath your chin when you take a bite out of his portion.

You perk up. “It’s good.”

“Right?” Mydei laughs. “This one’s my favorite. We usually only have these in Kremnos during—“

“Are you eloping, my dear prince?”

Your attention is dragged to the owner of the quip. Lord Phainon appears from the thick of the crowd, and his teasing tone brings heat to your cheeks. Mydei scowls at his companion, “why are you here?”

Phainon greets you by ruffling your hair, “have you even an inkling of remorse for your pitiful servants?” His ocean blue eyes aren’t laughing despite his smile. “They’ve been looking for you for an hour or two, to the point it’s starting to spin into a commotion on the festival streets.”

This prompts Mydei to sigh. “Those fellows…”

A flute and strings draws their attention. Suddenly the crowd erupts into cheers, some step forth, dancing on the streets. You can feel Mydei’s eyes on you, then flickering to Phainon.

Maybe it was the expression on the prince’s face that Phainon let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll deal with your servants. You have an hour.”

“That’s all that I need.” Mydei smiles when Phainon turns on his heel to leave. “I owe you, my friend.”

“It’s nothing.” Phainon’s eyes flutter over to you, and his gentle smile returns, mouthing a take care of him before tugging on his hood and disappearing. At that time, you didn’t really know what the young lord meant with that.

And you didn’t have time to ponder, Mydei’s large hand is inching over yours, his fingertips brushing your skin. You look over to him and he asks, “do you know how to dance?”

You barely remembered what you responded back. The prince’s hands have captured your own, more of a soft caress than a hold before slowly pulling you onto the streets and the flurry of dancing citizens. The outside lights careens into the expression on his face when he tells you to dance with him.

You both circle each other and you watch his footwork—sidestepping, bouncing back then spinning—Mydei’s hand is not far from yours, and he pulls you into his dance, a palm seeking refuge on your torso and the other securing your hand, he spins you around and you cannot help the bubble of a laugh from slipping from your lips.

Between the flurries and the crowds there was nothing but you and the prince, everyone else was barely a splotch of watercolor on canvas.

An hour burns through quickly when you’re having fun. The sky began to dim and the festival had hushed, when his servants finally found him and he got in the carriage, he pops his head out the window, calling your name before you can leave.

You seek the honey in his eyes once again, and he leans into his open palm, “visit Castrum Kremnos sometimes.” Mydei grins. “It's a bore to always spend time sparring with Phainon and he’s not a great dancer like you are.

You mirror his grin with your own. “If this is what my prince wants, then I’ll obey.”

The brightened smile that Mydei gave you felt like he had shaved a piece of the sun and reflected it on his own expression. “See you.”

“Goodbye, Kremnos’ prince.”

That expression of his had engraved into your membrane as years shuffle and roll, it’s the exact same face he shows you when you finally visit him—not as a clergy guest of the city but Prince Mydeimos’ guest.

So it's very hard for you to believe in those rumours, rumours that stated that Castrum Kremnos’ hero had gone manic—the same as when the heretical black tide came and made the titans mad. It’s just difficult.

You’re aware that war and battles change a person. It came to make their blooming heart wither into a wasteland, but you know Mydeimos for so long.

You knew him as his childhood friend, as someone who had admired him and his heart for years on end—you never believed rumours about him and if it were true, you wanted to make your own judgement and witness it for yourself.

So when talks of Mydei’s arrival from the battlefield reached your ears, you did not hesitate to start packing for the trip.

Your journey to Kremnos was hasty. You had ignored the rebuttals your father threw at you and got on the carriage. As years passed, so did Castrum Kremnos. It did not beguile a glow like it used to, but your mind’s a raging storm. Your pace is impatient as you run down the corridors of the familiar city.

The sound of the steel sword would indicate where he was since you are aware of his duties to fight—and it is said that crown prince Mydeimos is usually seen spending his leisure on swordsmanship, alone.

Your hand is pressed against the olive tree bark, heaving heavy breaths as your eyes land on Mydeimos’ back, his muscles and sinews are hardened under the reddish hue of sunset, flexing as he moves his sword to cut the air. You barely notice the look on his eyes as well, gone were his large honey pupils and chub on his cheeks, now his gaze has sharpened into resin, narrowed with furrowed brows. He’s no longer as talkative or carefree as back then.

You take a step closer and flinch when Mydeimos turns to your direction, the sword lands heavy above your shoulders, almost grazing your cheek and ears.

The air hangs heavy with tension.

“It’s me, Mydei.”

At the sound of your voice, the prince wavers. The sword is immediately retracted and his heavy heaves are all that fills the air between you two.

“You…” Mydei runs his fingers through his wet hair. “You really do have the habit of just wandering into the practice grounds like this.”

You look away. “I’ll try not to next time.” You were just a little worried about him today.

When you feel a fingertip running down your jaw, you turn back to him.

Mydeimos’ eyes land on something on your face, his frown deepening. “There’s a cut.” He tells you. is there?

You cannot help the slight sting or wince when he presses the wound. At your reaction, he tries to pull away but your hands are quick to capture it, placing his calloused palms back on your cheeks.

“It’s okay.” You tell him but he’s noiseless.

Instead he tilts your head sideways, then leans down. His rough lips on your cheek is all you feel and you’re engulfed in Mydei’s scent of bonfire and wood and smoke.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, pressing another kiss to your other cheek and you told him it was fine. His head lands heavy on your shoulder so you don’t dare ask him how he’s been or how the battlefield was—you doubt he’d want to answer it right now.

“Will you stay for a bit?” He’d ask you and in response you’d embrace him.

“For as long as you wish.”

He pushes a bit. “Will you be by my side then?”

“If you command it, I will.”

Silence.

“Stay with me today?” Mydei adds. “Please?”

For a moment, Phainon’s words are on your ears: take care of him.

You tug him back and hold his cheeks on your palms, your eyes dissect his every fold and dip in expression, the downcasted frown and tired eyes. You give him a bright smile—a smile that flickers a glow on his honey pupils—then rest your forehead against his own.

“I’m here for as long as I live.” You murmur sweetly. “Even if it’s just us left, I’ll be with you.” because I love you, Mydei. For everything that I have.

You don’t announce it, but Mydei’s expression seems to shift when he gazes into your eyes, like he’d read the words written in them.

And holding him like this, you prayed to yourself—to wish nothing but endless glory and victory to Mydeimos for all the tragedies he’d witnessed.

You are not skilled in combat, but you’d hope your support and embraces can heal his wounds just as much. But when Mydei leans forward and presses another kiss on your forehead and two cheeks, your skin is matted and sun-kissed at the trail of his lips. It’s as if he’s telling you that yes, you’re healing him, you’re making him happy.

And you smile at the manner.

“oh god, are you alright?!” 

someone shouts as you groan in pain. your vision spotting as you try to make out the messy blob of white and blue in front of you. someone takes your hand and you’re forcefully yanked up to your feet, making your headache worse with how quickly you stood up.

“i’m so, so, so, sorry. this is my fault i wasn’t paying attention. does your head hurt badly? do you want to go to the infirmary? someone get me ice packs—”

“will you calm down? you’re making my headache worse!” you don’t mean for your voice to sound so cold but it was nothing but the truth. you appreciate this mystery person’s concern, but god does he talk too much.

“right… right! sorry.”

you sigh and massage your temple. when your vision starts to clear up again, your mouth is left hanging as you realize who’s in front of you. that signature white hair and blue eyes combo is practically thrown at your face as phainon tilts his head in mild curiosity at your expression.

“i… need to go. sorry.” you quickly say, gathering your things from the floor and speed walking to the exit. you faintly hear the athlete heartthrob call out to you but you don’t pay him any mind. you were not getting into a cat fight with his fans with that cliche encounter.

that following night, your friends betray you by leaking your phone number to phainon. after a few heated and teasing messages in the group chat, you steady your breathing as you open his messages. you didn’t necessarily know what to expect on how phainon messages his friends or acquaintances, but you certainly find some childish endearment.

he sent a lot of messages—broken up into multiple sections explaining his worry and regret of hitting you instead of one single text box. phainon also used excessive amounts of exclamation marks, a lot of misspelled words, uppercases, and surprisingly enough, kaomojis. you let out an exasperated smile as you finally come to understand how cute this kid was.

you only planned to reply with a single message explaining your condition but that quickly spiralled into him chatting up a storm—a never ending stream of topics. you indulge him, using this as an excuse to find out even more on why so many people are so gravitated towards him. you surmise it’s because of his easy-going nature; he never leaves you hanging with his replies and speaking of replies, he sends messages at an ungodly quick speed. one thing turned to another before he ended the conversation with a message that read: “would you like to get a cup of coffee as an apology? it’ll be my treat ofc!!!!”

✶ : ANAXA (GORAS)

you see, if there was one person that made your blood boil like lava, it would be the student council secretary, anaxa. always so curt, blunt, and rude, he makes all of your accomplishments seem small when put side by side with his. it infuriates you to no end when the test scores for each year is posted on the bulletin and you spot him dead center of the crowd. you already feel a scowl forming on your face as you pass the bodies of other students and mentally prepare yourself for his berating voice.

you frown in dismay when you see his name on the number one spot with you a few spaces below him. your lip sews themselves shut when you hear him cough into his fist, quiet enough to not disturb the other students' excitement but loud enough for you to hear. as if wanting to rub more salt onto a fresh wound, anaxa peers into your line of vision with a smug smirk on his lips. with your pride hurt, you quickly turn away from him and begin walking away to save face. you didn’t need him to rub it in your face that he was leagues better than you.

anaxa won’t admit the swirling in his gut when he sees your figure get smaller and smaller. the oddest thing of it all, you don’t show your face to him at all since the test scores has been posted. he’d rather die than admit he missed your presence to anyone—your banters, nudging each other in quiet retaliation, and the time spent on the rooftop trying to study. anaxa would rather swallow a thousand needles than openly admit he felt jealous of his junior–the school athlete–and how you always seem to get coffee with him every morning. wasn’t that your thing with him?

“pray tell,” you flinch at the voice–failing to pack up your things quick enough to avoid anaxa who frequented the small cafe near campus. “why is it that you find the time to pick up coffee with our junior, but not me?”

if you were any other student, you’d think he sounds jealous—but that was a ridiculous thing to think. anaxa, jealous? you’re very sure the only emotion he’s ever felt in his life were spite and pride. as if to insinuate that you’ve actually replaced him with your usual routine, you ignore him. fight the twitch of your lips when anaxa visibly frowns at your silence. though a part of you—a tiny, tiny part—does feel a bit guilty. you weren’t one for the silent treatment, but anaxa deserved it. (you try to convince yourself at least).

“look if this is about the test scores, i’m…”

you walk past him but before you can fully exit the establishment, anaxa is running after you and catching your wrist with a firm grip. you turn to glare but the initial pettiness that fueled your heart quickly evaporates into thin air when you see his expression. lips pursed into a thin line, eye darting here and there–avoiding yours at all cost–and posture rigid but not in his usual secretary way; he looked almost vulnerable.

“i… apologize, for always belittling you whenever exam seasons are over. believe me, my intentions weren’t to bring you down. i just…” he trails off. a heavy frustrated sigh leaving his lips as his other hand comes to cover half of his face in shame. “wanted you to continue competing with me.”

by the following day, it was anaxa avoiding you like a plague. you still get coffee with phainon every morning, but today, you bought an extra cup—medium, iced, with only two teaspoons of sugar. the snowy-haired boy questioned you but you only replied with a cryptic “it’s a sorry gift.” he dropped the topic with a hum. you have a faint idea that phainon already knew who you were talking about.

the two of you separate on the second floor of campus—phainon heads straight to his classroom while you make a beeline to the council office. you rise up to the stairs in quiet contemplation on how to give anaxa his usual cup of coffee. with you being so lost in thought, you don’t realize that you’re now standing face to face with the classroom door. if you take a quick peek at the crack, you’d see anaxa with his head leaning back the chair he sat on with a book covering his face. you chuckle in amusement and as quietly as you could, tip-toe your way around the desk and place the coffee cup right by his notes. you graciously pull off a piece of sticky note and wrote down a short message before sticking it on the book on his face before leaving.

when the door finally closes shut, anaxa carefully removes the book obscuring his vision and takes the note you had written. ‘sorry for avoiding you! no matter what, you’re still my rival. remember to always take care of yourself, okay?’ anaxa snorts in amusement as he takes the cup of coffee in his hand, swirling the liquid before taking a sip. you still remember how he likes his coffee.

✶ : MYDEIMOS

if phainon was the cute junior that reminded you of a puppy and anaxa was the annoying bird that’s always perched on your shoulder, then mydei is that intimidating class president who quietly cares for his class. admittedly, you, among many others, had the wrong impression of him on your first meeting. initially, you assumed mydei was the type of student who always picked fights with other students and got into trouble with the student body. he does do those things—you see him butt heads with phainon during pe class and see aglaea scolding him during meetings every now and then. but nothing can prepare you when you first ask him for notes.

to say it’s a nerve wrecking situation would be an understatement—you were shaking in your shoes as your classmates cheered you on. with one final sigh, you find his contacts on your phone and repeatedly draft a message, delete it, then start over again and again until you grow frustrated and give up for the time being. you throw a defeated expression at your classmates and promise them to ask mydei for the notes later today. the school festival has been taking up so much of everyone’s time that you can’t find enough time to actually pay attention and write down notes in class. everyone was either sleeping or dozing off with exhaustion and you were no exception. you were sleeping during the first two periods of class and they each had their respective quiz some time this week.

you massage your temple in stress as you mumble about how you can ask mydei about his notes.

“what about my notes?”

you freeze on your spot. the hand massaging your temple rigidly drops back to your side as you awkwardly smile at the only person who can help your entire class pass manifests into thin air. 

“uh… well, you see…” you fumble with the words on your tongue and curse yourself inside your mind for appearing nervous. you just want to ask if he had taken notes during the first and second period, simple right? wrong!

you shift in your spot uncomfortably, eyes falling to the floor and to your shoes to avoid his burning gaze while your hand rubs at your arm—a nervous tick you developed over the years. you open your mouth to finally reply but the feeling of something soft hitting you in the head has you looking up and meeting his gaze by accident. you don’t miss the quiet amusement that courses through him as you stumble to grab the stack of papers he graciously put on your head.

“if you wanted to borrow notes, you could have just said so. it’s not like i’m going to bite your head off.” his voice is stern but if you listen closely, you’ll realize there’s an undercut of playfulness in them as you beam at him.

“thank you so much, mydei!” you express your gratitude as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“go share them with the class, i still need to catch up with the council on something.”

mydei turns to leave but you call out to him. he slightly turns his head to look at your almost flustered smile, “what is it?”

you hold his notes close to your chest as you grin at him, “thank you, really! you don’t understand how much everyone needs these right now.”

he huffs in response and waves you goodbye and you turn to run back to your classroom to spread the good news that no one will be failing this year.

when mydei enters the council meeting with the other class representatives, castorice greets with a curious tilt of his head—she questions the smile on his face as he sits down at his usual spot but he only shrugs it off. mydei plays it off as finding something funny on the internet, which was strange. mydei rarely finds anything funny, let alone if they came from the internet.

he takes tentative sips from the coffee agalaea had generously provided for everyone, and he doesn’t miss the way a pair of eyes follow his every movement. he catches phainon from one corner staring at him with furrowed brows as he twirls the pen in his fingers while the council secretary at the front scowls at him. you may not remember, but back in middle school, when no one wanted to share a table with the delinquent, you sat next to him without question and offered him a spare pen when you realized he didn’t have one. to this day, mydei still use that pen even if the ink had long run out—he just wants to show off the item with your name on it.

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants. 

“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.

You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not. 

Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.

Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves. 

It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones. 

Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength. 

So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you. 

Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady. 

You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.

Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:

If not for Janusopolis, then for me.

Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.

But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.

You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders. 

But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.

It stings. You don’t flinch.

Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.

How ironic, you almost want to say.

Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him. 

He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king. 

The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”

Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.

—————

Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic. 

“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation. 

“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”

“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly. 

You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)

“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”

“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”

Oh. 

Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room. 

There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around. 

“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”

“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”

You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break. 

But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid. 

“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.

Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor. 

There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot. 

“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.) 

“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him. 

But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly. 

“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”

“But—”

“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds. 

You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”

“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side. 

“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”

He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time. 

Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening. 

“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”

He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”

You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”

“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”

You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.

“The left,” you murmur.

“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”

With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.) 

“Goodnight,” he mumbles. 

“Goodnight,” you huff in return. 

“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”

“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”

He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”

────────────────────────

One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos. 

At least, it is for you. 

You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head. 

The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly. 

Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband. 

“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”

“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”

“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”

“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”

“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”

“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.

“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”

Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince. 

“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown. 

You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”

“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”

“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?” 

“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out. 

This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”

“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.

“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”

“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”

“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”

That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do. 

And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days. 

Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”

“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”

“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”

“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”

His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.

Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms. 

“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”

His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.

“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)

“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly. 

“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”

“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”

“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”

Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything. 

And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy. 

“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”

“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves. 

It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”

And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.

You will have nothing of the sort.

You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”

He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you. 

Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused. 

“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”

You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them. 

“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.

“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated. 

“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”

And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears. 

“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”

—————

Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence. 

Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly. 

“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”

“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”

Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come. 

“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”

“Perhaps I  have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort. 

Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)

“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”

“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”

You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire. 

She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.

(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”

You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.

After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.

“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”

“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)

In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.

Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.

Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.

“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go. 

It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open. 

“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic. 

“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side

He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”

“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”

“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”

You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing. 

Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles. 

The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.

It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”

“How long will this dinner last?” you pout. 

He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”

With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves. 

You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment. 

So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained. 

That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream. 

“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.

“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”

“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”

“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”

“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—

He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”

“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”

“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you. 

Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him. 

“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”

He cuts you off again. 

“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”

His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—

“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”

“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”

The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos. 

And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.

A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp. 

“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”

“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”

You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.

“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”

“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”

“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him. 

“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders. 

You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.

With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.

“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”

“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”

He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”

“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”

“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely. 

You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”

By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose. 

Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage. 

“Ready to return home?” He asks. 

You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.

Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth. 

────────────────────────

After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends. 

That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:

Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.

You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?

I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner. 

Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest? 

Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way. 

It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise. 

“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you. 

You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”

“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”

It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)

“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)

“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.

At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”

“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”

“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”

His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming. 

The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.

“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”

“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.

“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”

“And what would that be?”

“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.) 

And you cave. 

Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason. 

“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff. 

You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.

—————

It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.

You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)

Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.

“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”

“Thank you,” you smile. 

With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.

Silence. Perfect. 

Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.

But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.

You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.

“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist. 

He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face. 

“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”

“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”

“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament. 

“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”

“Mydei,” he corrects. 

“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”

“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”

“But you are using it,” you all but whine. 

“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse. 

That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point. 

He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate. 

Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy. 

“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping. 

“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.

You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)

“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”

“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”

“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”

“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”

“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”

“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass. 

And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”

You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“I would not lie to you, dear wife.” 

You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”

He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”

He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you. 

You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close. 

“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”

────────────────────────

In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries. 

But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive. 

“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”

“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”

He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”

“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”

“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”

“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”

It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.

Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”

And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him. 

You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.

Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”

He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”

“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”

“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”

“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”

This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm. 

You blink in surprise. 

“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly. 

“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”

“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties. 

“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”

“They have,” he nods, agreeing.

Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it. 

It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically. 

“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”

“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”

“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”

“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?

“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”

“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.

“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”

Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!” 

—————

Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)

You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood. 

“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”

“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”

“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth. 

“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”

“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)

“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”

“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”

“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”

“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”

“It is getting late—”

“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”

He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles. 

“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”

“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)

“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth. 

He melts for a second, on instinct alone. 

And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”

“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”  

“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”

You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on. 

“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”

“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”

“But—”

He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”

“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”

He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”

—————

In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)

You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”

“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”

“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it. 

“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.” 

(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)

────────────────────────

It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you. 

He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back. 

You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.

It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry. 

He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry. 

Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first. 

He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent. 

At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.

“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle. 

He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”

“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”

“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.

“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.” 

“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”

“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”

“I am not—”

You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips. 

“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts. 

“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)

Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”

“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”

For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”

“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze. 

You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you. 

And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei? 

Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”

“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”

His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin. 

“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”

He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest. 

“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”

“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”

You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock. 

“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”

“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”

“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”

“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.” 

His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers. 

He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages. 

“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”

“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”

“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”

“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”

His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls. 

“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”

“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”

“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.

You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock. 

“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”

“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”

You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression. 

“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”

He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.

He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you. 

“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”

And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything. 

“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”

With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take. 

“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”

“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”

His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him. 

“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”

“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”

When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you. 

And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”

He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”

“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.